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LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

FROM  THE   LIBRARY   OF 
MRS.    H,    RUSSELL   AMORY. 

GIFT   OF   HER   CHILDREN 
R.   W.    AND   NINA   PARTRIDGE 


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"2^  ^  m^  V^^r  ■•■SsT- 


Z  %T 


■  '%^--^t 


*  V-.* 


PI 


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AN 


^OLD     SCRAP-BOOK. 


WITH    ADDITIONS. 


Printed,  but   not   Published,  for   Distribution,  as  a  passing 
Token   to   Personal   Friends. 


.  .   .   '-that  music  to  whose  tone 

Tlie  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle,  mirth  or  moan, 

In  cold  or  sunny  clime." 

Halleck. 


SECOND  EDITION. 


Febkuary  8, 
1891. 


Copyright,  1S91, 
By   J.    M.    FoKBEs. 


A     LEAF 
DROPPED    OUT   FROM    A    BUSY   LIFE. 

The  leaf  JJoats  by  upon  the  stream. 
Unheeded  in  its  sileiit  path  : 

The  vision  of  a  shadowy  dream 
A  similar  remembrance  hath. 

WILLIS. 


JEnifatrsitg  JPrtss: 
John  Wilson  and  Son,  Cambridok. 


V.I 


PREFACE   TO   SECOND   EDITION. 


A  CALL  from  young  friends  for  more  copies  of  the  Old  Scrap 
Book  has  led  me,  at  the  end  of  seven  years,  to  reprint  it  with 
some  omissions  and  some  additions. 

Of  these  last,  the  most  important  are  those  which  the  kind- 
ness of  Dr.  Holmes  and  of  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co. 
has  allowed  me  now  to  introduce,  especially  a  few  pen-and- 
ink  sketches  of  the  members  of  our  grand  old  Saturday 
Club.  I  only  wish  the  sketches  could  have  been  extended 
by  the  same  or  some  other  such  master-hand,  especially  during 
the  stormy  scenes  of  the  Eebellion.  What  pictures  would 
arise  of  the  blue-coats  passing  our  windows  bound  for  South- 
ern shores,  only  too  many  of  them  never  to  return  !  Then 
at  our  table,  who  of  us  can  forget  the  officers  on  leave,  with 
their  stories  of  camp-life  and  battle-field,  some  of  them  with 
names  which  have  helped  to  make  history,  and  will  live  in  the 
story  of  our  war  when  it  comes  to  be  told. 

Tlie  shadows  rise  up  in  memory,  of  our  members  and  of  our 
guests,  —  men  known  in  literature,  art,  science,  and  war :  such 
men  as  Agassiz,  Wyman,  Gray,  Gurney,  Emerson,  Longfellow, 
Sumner,  Andrew,  with  Grant,  Fox,  Stanton,  and  a  long  array 
of  others.  They  rise  in  memory,  but  where  is  the  hand 
to  give  them    shape  ?     Eyes  and  thoughts  grow  dim  at   the 


iv  PREFACE   TO   SECOND   EDITION. 

attempt  at  retrospection  ;  and  so  I  refer  my  readers  to  the 
admirable,  though  too  limited  sketches  whicli  Dr.  Holmes 
has  given,  with  the  hope  that  at  some  future  day  the  omissions 
may  be  supplied  with  sketches  of  some  of  those  now  living 
who  rank  with  the  best  of  those  who  have  gone  ahead. 

J.  M.  F. 

Fkb.  8,  1891. 


PREFACE    TO   FIRST   EDITION. 


This  volume  is  built  up  from  the  nucleus  of  an  old  scrap-book 
begun  about  1830,  and  from  a  few  old  verses  which  had  been 
either  copied  or  impressed  upon  the  memory  much  earlier. 
The  original  leaves  still  hold  a  few  flowers,  pressed  fifty  years 
ago,  and  a  good  many  newspaper  cuttings  of  various  periods. 
To  these  last  have  been  added  contributions  from  friends,  both 
in  print  and  manuscript,  many  songs  and  gleanings  from  the 
then  current  literature  of  England  and  America,  while  some 
living  authors,  and  the  representatives  of  others,  have  gener- 
ously permitted  the  free  use  of  their  treasures.* 

If  I  were  to  catalogue  in  a  rough  way  the  patchwork  now 
printed,  it  would  read  something  thus  :  — 

Nursery  hymns,  having  the  tones  of  voices  long  silent,  still 
ringing  in  one's  ears  with  the  distinctness  of  yesterday. 

Stealings,  from  school  and  other  books,  accumulated  in  the 
desultory  reading  of  a  lifetime  ;  and,  especially,  large  extracts 
from  those  poets  who  were  universally  recognized  fifty  years 
ago,  and  whom  it  seems  to  be  the  fashion  of  young  America 
to  forget  or  ignore. 

Songs  of  the  hunt,  the  yacht,  the  Indiaman's  cabin  or  deck 
through  trade-winds  and  Cape  of   Good  Hope  storms,  or  the 

*  Messrs.  Houghton,  MilTliii,  &  Co.  have  been  particularly  obliging. 


vi  PREFACE    TO    FIIIST  EDITION. 

coming  typhoon,  —  some  having  for  an  accompaniment  the  rush- 
ing tide  of  Wood's  Holl,  or  the  squall  hurrying  down  the  sides 
of  8t.  ^Michael's,  or  Teneriffe's  mountains  ;  the  ripple  of  the 
^liami  lliver  pushing  out  of  the  Everglades,  the  foam  along  the 
Florida  reefs,  or  the  "burr"  of  the  hurricane  among  the  pines 
of  the  St.  John's  Eiver. 

Songs  of  the  concert  room,  theatre,  and  opera,  —  from  the  days 
of  ]\Iario  and  Grisi,  Jenny  Lind  and  Rachel  (if  the  snake-like 
hissing  of  Eachel's  "  Marseillaise  "  can  be  called  singing),  down 
to  the  sturdy  Badialli  with  his  three  encores  of  "  Suoni  la 
Tromba." 

National,  political,  and  war  songs,  —  from  the  days  of  the 
Free  Soil  Campaign  of  1856,  up  to  those  which  rang  through 
the  camps  of  Grant,  Sherman,  and  Sheridan,  carrying  the 
undertone  which  so  many  of  the  verses  got  from  the  outgoing 
regiments  under  Gordon,  Lee,  Williams,  Shaw,  Lowell,  and 
Hallowell,  and  from  the  sadder  march  when  they  returned 
with  thinned  ranks  and  tattered  flags. 

In  short,  to  paraphrase  Halleck,  — 

*'  Songs  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Songs  of  the  bridal  ami  the  hier, 
The  welcome  and  farewell." 

Poems  of  the  parlor,  beginning  under  the  low  ceiling  of  the 
old  Milton  House,  then  through  Pearl  Street  and  Pine  Bank, 
reaching  over  to  Russell  Sturgis's  pleasant  quarters  on  the  Praya 
Grande  of  Macao,  and  onward  still  to  my  little  ranche  of  Mt. 
Saint  George  in  California,  —  by  no  means  forgetting  Naushon 
and  Swan  Island. 

Poems  heard  from  the  lips  of  Emerson,  Lowell,  Poe,  Holmes, 
Fanny  Kemble,  and  the  beautiful  Catherine  Sedgwick,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Heine. 


PREFACE    TO   FIRST  EDITION.  vii 

All  these  and  a  thousand  more  such  threads  run  through 
the  memory  like  echoes  from  the  past,  when  one  tries  to  string 
together  the  rhymes  which  have  been  floating  in  the  mind 
through  over  half  a  century. 

This  crude  medley  of  Poem  and  Song,  Epigram  and  Charade, 
is  offered  with  some  hesitation  as  a  token  of  remembrance  to 
the  few  old  friends  who  still  surround  me^  and  to  the  many 
younger  ones  who  are  so  rapidly  taking  our  places. 

If  it  saves  some  eyes  from  straining  over  faded  manuscript 
and  line  print,  or  recalls  scenes  and  tones  of  voice  or  of  music 
connected  with  its  verses,  it  will  have  answered  the  rather 
vague  purpose  with  which  it  has  been  so  loosely  thrown 
together. 

J.  M.  r. 

Feb.  8,  1884. 


INDEX    OF    AUTHORS. 


Adams,  Sarah  Flower. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee,  124. 

Addison,  Joseph. 
Au  Ode :  The  spacious  firmament,  499. 

Anonymous. 
About  that  brow,  6. 
A  Charade:  Sir  Hilary  charged,  223. 
Address  to  my  Washerwoman,  78. 
A  Fragment :  Couie  take  the  harp,  650. 
Ah,  Mr.  B.,  76. 
A  Letter  of  Advice  from  Miss  M.  T. 

to  Araminta,  7. 
Away,  away  we  bound  o'er  the  deep, 

26. 
A  Woman's  Ideal,  622. 
Begone  I  dull  care,  253. 
Bridal  Serenade,  65. 
Clear-sighted,  yet  blind,  53. 
Come,  brave  with  me  the  sea,  239. 
Day  breaks  on  the  mountain,  49. 
Drinking-Soug  :  Banish  sorrow,  34. 
Epitaph  on  Napoleon's  Tomb  at  St. 

Helena,  86. 
Epitaph  on  Timothy  John,  1S8. 
For  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee.  Love,  9. 
Gathering  of  Athol,  232. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  299. 
Hail,  chariniiig  power,  38. 
Home  by  the  Sea,  241. 
How  gaily  rows  the  gondolier,  61. 
How  stands  the  glass  around  ?  71* 


Hymn  :  The  dead  are  like  the  stars  by 
day,  13. 

I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine,  104. 

"  11  passato  e  passato,"  662. 

"1  number  none  but  the  cloudless 
hours,"  210. 

Know  ye  the  land  ?  25. 

Leezie  Lindsay,  261. 

Life,  3. 

Lutzow's  Wild  Hunt,  183. 

Mahabharata,  366. 

Maternal  Atfectiou,  86. 

"  Merry  England,"  84. 

O'er  the  water  to  Charlie,  233. 

Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  ily,  255. 

On  a  Miser,  33. 

One  still  lingered,  56. 

On  the  Death  of  a  beautiful  Young 
Girl,  54. 

O  pescator  dell'  onde,  210. 

Receipt  to  make  a  Man  of  Conse- 
quence, 40. 

Reproach,  638. 

Shan  Van  Vocht,  149. 

Should  he  upbraid,  253. 

Spirits  -which  hover  round,  250. 

Tell  her  I'll  love  her,  247- 

Tlie  Banks  of  the  blue  Moselle,  255. 

The  Barring  o'  the  Door,  614. 

The  Braggart,  58. 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  270. 

Tlie  Captain  :  A  Fragment,  672. 

The  Cathedral,  73. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


The  Change,  231. 

The  Despairing  Lover,  613. 

The  Disaster,  2\i). 

Tlie  Don  to  Nausliou,  600. 

Tiie  five  Dreams,  30. 

The  Gathering  of  the  Hays,  228. 

The  Gipsy  Laddie,  U2. 

The  Grave,  56. 

The  Grave  of  Bonaparte,  189. 

The  Jaeobite's  Pledge,  230. 

The  hite  Deputation  to  Paris,  101. 

Tiie  light  Bark,  02. 

The  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star,  14. 

Tlie  Nation's  Dead,  310. 

Tlic  soldier,  tired  of  war's  alarms,  270. 

The  Song  of  the  Forge,  87- 

Titauia's  Song,  256. 

To  • ,  41. 

To  a  newly  opened  Oyster,  15. 
When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ?  617. 
Wilt  thou  tempt  the  waves  with  me  ? 

650. 
W.  M.  Hunt's  French  Song,  105. 
Wonders  eease,  4S. 

Aytoun,  William  EDiioNDSTOUNE. 
Courtship  of  our  Cid,  396. 

Baillie,  Joanna. 
The  Bonny  Boat,  131. 

Barbauld,  Anna  L.etitia. 
Life  and  Death,  575. 
The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul,  457. 

Barker,  David. 
Two  Kinds  of  Piety,  146. 

B.vYLY,  Thomas  Haynes. 
Gavly  the  Troubadour,  251. 
Isle  of  Beauty,  61. 

Bkaumont  and  Fletcher. 
Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away,  543. 


Beers,  Ethel  Lynn. 

On  the  Shores  of  Tennessee,  292. 
The  Picket-Guard,  294. 

Bliss,  Daniel. 

Epitaph  on  a   Slave   in  "Old   Burial 
Hill,"  Concord,  Mass.,  99. 

Bradford,  Joseph. 
Dolce  far  Nieute,  147. 

Browne,  William. 

The  Sirens'  Song,  628. 
Whom  I  love,  621. 

Browning,  Elizabeth  Barrett. 
My  Kate,  397. 

Browning,  Robert. 

Cavalier's  Song,  589. 

How  they  brought  the  good  News  from 

Ghent  to  Aix,  603. 
Incident  of  the  French  Camji,  273. 
The  Lost  Leader,  515. 

Bryant,  William  Cullen. 

A  Forest  Hymn,  637. 
Green  River,  361. 
Thanatopsis,  494. 
The  Damsel  of  Peru,  357- 
The  Death  of  the  Flowers,  469. 
Wooing-Time,  60. 

BuLWER  (Sir  Edward  Bllwer 
Lytton). 
Extract :  We  believe  that  fate,  78. 
On  English  Travellers,  55. 
To  the  dim  and  gloomy  shore,  72. 

Burgoyne,  General. 
The  dashing  white  Sergeant,  266. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


XI 


Burns,  Robert. 

Address  to  the  unco  Guid,  ortlic  rigidly 

Righteous,  428. 
A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born,  402 
A  red,  red  Rose,  542. 
Rannockburn,  504. 
Bonnie  Lesley,  401. 
For  a'  that  and  a'  that,  484. 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  23. 
I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  425. 
Jean,  541. 

John  Anderson,  539. 
Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn, 

455. 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  56G. 
The  Deil  's  awa'  wi'  the   Exciseman, 

429. 
The  first  Kiss  of  Affection,  393. 
The  winsome  Wee  Thing,  75. 
To  the  Devil,  002. 
Wandering  Willie,  404. 
Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

242. 

Butler,  Samuel. 
The  Stratagem,  GIG. 

Byron,  George  Gordon  (Loi'd) 
An  Ode  :  From  the  French,  444. 
Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean,  420. 
A  sail !  a  sail  !  4G7. 
A  Sketch,  426. 
Bring  forth  the  horse,  468. 
Death  of  Major  Howard,  54. 
Elegiac  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir 

Peter  Parker,  Bart.,  458. 
Fare  thee  well,  403. 
Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  prayer,  455. 
Fill  the  goblet  again,  52. 
He  that  hath  sailed,  77. 
Jephtha's  Daughter,  500. 
Maid  of  Athens,  410. 
My  boat  is  on  the  shore,  27. 
My  tent  on  shore,  mv  galley  on  the  sea, 
'77. 


Ode  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  39. 

O'er  the  glad  water.s,  472. 

Oil  Jordan's  banks,  421. 

On  the  Star  of  the  "Legion  of  Honor," 

415. 
She  walks  in  beauty,  477. 
Song  of  the  Greek  Poet,  582. 
Tlie  Banks  of  Rhine,  399. 
The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  522. 
The  Helen  of  Canova,  28. 
The  Immortal  Mind,  498. 
The  Land  of  the  Sun,  414. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon,  521. 
The  Wild  Gazelle,  419. 
Vision  of  Belshazzar,  GOl. 
Waterloo,  510. 
What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  450. 

Calvert,  George  H. 
Woman's  Love,  149. 

Campbell,  Thomas. 
Battle  of  the  Baltic,  505. 
Exile  of  Erin,  2. 
"  Gertrude    of     Wyoming,"    Extract 

from,  435. 
Glenara,  528. 
Ilohenlinden,  509. 
Hope,  57. 

In  vain,  alas  I  in  vain,  26. 
Ijochiel's  Warning,  G05. 
Lord  Ullin's  Daughter,  570. 
]\Ien  of  England,  41G. 
O'Connor's  Child,  437. 
Song  :  Drink  ye  to  her,  465. 
Song  :  Withdi-aw  not  yet,  456. 
The  Beech-Tree's  Petition,  418. 
The  Soldier's  Dream,  272. 
The  Turkish  Lady,  411. 
What's  hallowed' ground?  459. 
Ye  mariners  of  England  !  507- 

Capkx,  Edward. 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ?  107- 


XII 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Carew,  Thomas. 
He  that  loves  a  rosy  check,  625. 

Clarke,  Captain. 
Our  Island  Cliristmas  Eve,  227. 

Clougii,  Arthur  Hugu. 
Quii  Cursum  Ventus,  137. 


Time,  12. 


C,  M.  A. 


Coleridge,  Samuel  Taylor. 
Genevieve,  31. 
Let  us  love,  453. 
The  Devil's  Thoughts,  430. 

Collins,  William. 
How  sleep  the  brave,  551. 

CoLMAN,  George. 
Nursery  Rhyme  :  Wheu  the  Moorish 
cymbals,  183. 

CoNYGHAM,  Mrs. 
From  "  The  Dream,"  658. 

CowPER,  "William. 

Boadicea,  502. 

Ou  the  Loss  of  the  "  Koyal  George," 
552. 

Craig,  Isa. 
The  Ballad  of  the  Brides  of  Quair,  599. 

Cunningham,  Allan. 
Sea  Song  :  A  wet  sheet,  470. 

Cutler,  E.  J. 
Poem  read  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa 
Socictv  at  Cambridge,  July  IS,  1861, 
651. 

De  Lisle,  Pouget. 
Hymne  des  Marseillais,  274. 


DiEDiN,  Charles. 
Tom  Bowling,  267. 

Dickens,  Charles. 
The  Ivy  Green,  036. 

Dimond,  William. 
The  Mariner's  Dream,  16. 

Doddridge,  Philip. 

Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve, 
123. 

Douglas   of  Fingland. 
Annie  Laurie,  238. 

Drake,  Joseph  Rodman. 
The  American  Flag,  300. 

Dumas,  Alexandre. 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie,  276. 

DURIYAGE,    A.    E. 

Address  to  the  Birch,  38. 

Dyer,  Sir  Edward. 
My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is,  J  91. 

Eliot,  George. 
Boat  Song,  448. 

Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo. 
Boston,  319. 
Brahma,  366. 
Each  and  All,  368. 
Fable,  377. 
Forbearance,  378. 
Give  all  to  love,  628. 
Hymn  sung  at  the  Completion  of  the 

Concord  Monument,  594. 
Maiden  Speech  of  the  ^olian  Harp, 

643. 
Saadi  and  the  Dervish,  339. 
Terminus,  380. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


xiu 


The  Apology,  626. 

The  Rliodora,  385. 

Tlie  Siiow-Srorm,  358. 

The  Visit,  618. 

Thiue  eyes  still  shone,  627. 

"Threiiodv,"  Extract  from,  387. 

To  tiie  liuinble-Bec,  324. 

Voluntaries,  346. 

Waldeiusamkeit,  640. 

Everett,  Edwakd. 
Dirge  ol'Alaric,  the  Visigoth,  110. 

E.,  W.  E. 

Birthday  Verses,  670. 

Faxsiiawe,  Catherine. 
A  Riddle  :  'T  was  whispered  in  heaven, 
395. 

E.,  C.  F. 
There  was  a  listening  fear,  104. 

F.,  S.  J. 
A  Rhapsody,  659. 

Foster,  Mrs. 
To    the    First    of    the    Seraphim,  — 
Death,  94. 

Foster,  Steriien  Collins. 
Old  Folks  at  Home,  235. 

Franklin,  Benjamin. 
A  Letter  of  Benjamin  Franklin  to  Mr. 
Strahan,  249. 

Gakrick,  David. 
Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  258. 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd. 
Freedom  of  the  Mind,  246. 

Garrison,  William  Lloyd,  Jr. 
To ,658. 


Gibbons, . 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  302. 

Gillespie,  William. 
The  Highlander,  133. 

Goethe,  Joiiann  Wolfgang  von. 
The  Erl  King,  196. 
The  Fortunate  Land,  164. 

Goldsmith,  Oliver. 
An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog, 

565. 
The  Deserted  Village,  633. 

Gordon,  Maria  W. 
On  the  Death  of  E.  P.,  646. 

Gould,  Miss  H.  F. 
The  ship  is  ready,  29. 

Gray,  Thomas. 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard, 496. 
The  Bard,  561. 

Halleck,  Fitz-Greene. 

Alnwick  Castle,  69. 

Burns,  331. 

Connecticut,  363. 

Magdalen,  359. 

Marco  Bozzaris,  355. 

On   the    Death    of    Joseph   Rodman 

Drake,  129. 
On  the    Death    of  William   Howard 

Allen,  351. 
Red  Jacket,  338. 

The  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms,  350. 
The  Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Coaster, 

391. 
To  Eliza,  387. 
To  my  Yacht,  74. 
Woman,  388. 


XIV 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


II.VKTE,    BUET. 

Cliiquita,  555. 

J'laiu  Laiiguitgc  from  Truthful  James, 

o57. 
Tlie  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus,  390. 

H.,  A.  S. 

An  Opal  Gem,  213. 

Soft  gleams  the  October  sun,  217. 

Hay,  Colonel  Joijx. 
On  A.  B.,  218. 

Hebek,  Reginald. 
Missionary  Hymn,  19. 
The  Moonlight  March,  20. 

Hemans,  Felicl\  Dorothea. 
Casablanca,  134. 
Hymn  to  the  Virgin,  188. 
The  Bell  at  Sea,  59. 
Tlie  Hour  of  Death,  67. 
The  Hour  of  Prayer,  312. 
The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 

in  New  England,  3. 
The  Recall,  25. 

Herbert,  George. 
The  Parish   Priest  to   his  Successor, 
271. 

Herrick,  Robert. 
The  Night-Piece:  To  Julia,  545. 

II.,  E.  S. 
Answer  to  "Love  not,"  379. 
Better  a  sin  which   purposed  wrong 

to  none,  378. 
Cry  of  each  Planet's  Night,  3G4. 
Epitaph:  Stranger,  thou  readest,  336. 
I  slept  and  dreamed,  385. 
My  Thoughts,  367. 
On  a  Child  Drowned,  38G. 
Sleep,  370. 


The  Nobly  Born,  559. 

The  Wood  Fire,  199. 

To  R.  W.  E.,  323. 

VViiat  strange,  deep  secret,  96. 

Hill,  Aaron. 
Stroke  a  nettle,  38. 

Hillhouse,  James  A. 
Percy  claiming  his  Own,  607. 

Hoar,  Elizabeth. 
Story  of  a  Bridge,  310. 

Hoffman,  Charles  Fenno. 
Sparkling  and  bright,  237. 

Hogg,  James, 
A  National  Song  of  Triumph,  225. 
Kilmeny,  485. 
The  Lark,  263. 

Holmes,  Oliver  Wendell. 
A  Farewell  to  Agassiz,  335. 
A  Song  of  other  Days,  654. 
At  the  Saturday  Club,  665. 
From  "  The  Stability  of  Science,"  257 
Hunting-Song,  1857,  212. 
HLiuting-Song  for  1839,  206. 
Lexington,  286. 

Never  or  Now :  An  Appeal,  135. 
Never  or  Now,  517. 
No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

215. 
Old  Ironsides,  516. 
Questions  and  Answers,  375 
Song  :  The  stars  their  early  vigils,  330. 
Sun  and  Shadow,  225. 
The  Last  Look :  W.  W.  Swain,  644. 
The  Pilgrim's  Vision,  589. 
To  Governor  Swain,  648. 

Hood,  Thomas. 
I  remember,  I  remember,  the  house, 
584. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


XV 


HoPKiNSOX,  Judge  JosErn. 
Hull,  Columbia !  2S3. 

Houghton  (Richard  Monckton 
MiLNEs),  Lord. 

The  Brookside,  417. 

Howe,  Julia  Ward. 

Balaklava,  278. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republie,  298. 
Seasons  have  passed  away,  224. 
The  Flag,  29(3. 

Hunt,  Leigu. 
Abou  Ben  Adlicin,  493. 
Jeuiiy  kissed  me,  182. 

H.,  W.  H. 

The  Bugle-Horii,  207- 

James,  Paul  Moon. 
The  Lighthouse,  184. 

JoNSON,  Ben. 
Epitaph:  Underneath  this  stone,  426. 
Freedom  iu  Dress,  482. 
To  Celia,  544. 

Kemble,  Frances  Anne. 

Absence,  205. 

Expostulation,  28. 

Faith,  187. 

Impromptu,  195. 

Lines  for  Music  :  0  sunny  love,  189. 

Lines  in  Answer  to  a  Question,  90. 

Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Dawn,  1G8. 

Song :  When  you  mournfully  rivet,  186. 

Sonnets  on  the  American  War,  308. 

The  Fall  of  Richmond,  306. 

Key,  Francis  Scott. 
The  Star-spangled  Banner,  287- 


Landon,  Miss  L.  E. 
The  Lake  of  Windermere,  30. 

Larcom,  Lucy. 
A  Loyal  Woman's  No,  518. 

Leigh,  Henry  S. 
The  Twins,  268.- 

LocKHART,  John  Gibson. 

Song  of  the  Galley,  152. 
The  Bridal  of  Audalla,  548. 

Longfellow,  Henry  Wadswortit. 

A  Psalm  of  Life,  373. 

Footsteps  of  Angels,  376. 

Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  ol'  Belli- 

leliem,  592. 
Hymn  to  the  Night,  365. 
The  Arrow  and  the  Song,  379. 
The  Children's  Hour,  475. 
The  Cumberland,  608. 
Tiie  Happiest  Land,  597. 
The  Light  of  Stars,  372. 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  585. 
The  Warden  of  the  Cinque  Ports,  512. 

Lovelace,  Sir  Richard. 

To  Althea,  619. 
To  Lueasta,  478. 

Lowell,  James  Russell. 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  593. 

Commemoration  Ode,  328. 

Jonathan  to  John,  595. 

June,  381. 

Mason  and  Slidell,  612. 

The  Beggar,  367. 

The  wisest  man  could  ask  uo  more,  382. 

LuNT,  George. 
Requiem  for  a  Young  Soldier,  271. 


XVI 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Lytlk,  William  Haines. 
Ant  oil}'  and  Cleopatra,  28-i. 

Macaulay,  Thomas  Babington. 

Horatius  Codes,  179. 
Ivry,  155. 

Mackay,  Cuarles. 
Some  love  to  roam,  178. 

Marlowe,  Christopher. 
Live  with  me  aud  be  my  love,  262. 

Mason,  William. 
Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason  in  the  Cathe- 
dral at  Bristol,  632. 

MicKLE,  William  Julius. 
Cumuor  Hall,  42. 

Milton,  John. 
Mortal,  63. 

Mitc^jell,  S.  Weir,  M.D. 

Kearsarge,  630. 

The  Quaker  Graveyard,  631. 

Mitchell,  Walter. 
Tacking  Ship  off  Shore,  473. 

Montgomery,  James. 
What  is  Prayer  ?  1 20. 

Montrose,  James   Grahame,   Mar- 
quis OP. 
I  'II  never  love  thee  more,  478. 

Moore,  Thomas. 

A  Canadian  Boat-Song,  537. 
Araby's  Daughter,  535. 
Ballad  Stanzas,  195. 


Before  the  Battle,  162. 

Believe    me,  if    all    those    endearing 

young  charms,  180. 
Come,  ye  disconsolate,  636. 
Drink  to  her,  140. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  !  138. 
Fly  to  the  desert,  163. 
How  shall  1  woo  ?  62  1 . 
I  saw  from  the  beach,  176. 
It  is  this,  it  is  this,  163. 
Love's  young  Dream,  546. 
Oft  in  the  stilly  night,  536. 
Oh,  ever  thus,  187. 
Oh,  had  we  some  bright  litlle  i^Ie  of 

our  own,  141. 
Bich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 

182. 
She  is  far  from  the  land,  '107. 
Song:  Row  gently  here,  132. 
Song :  When  Time,  who  steals,  24. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel,  202. 
St.  Seuauus  and  the  Lady,  148. 
The  Conflict,  175. 
The  Ghebers'  Fight,  611. 
The   harp   that  once    through  Tara's 

halls,  539. 
The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  525. 
The  Leaf  and  Fountain,  408. 
The  Legacy,  154. 
The  Meeting  of  the  Ships,  130. 
The  Meeting  of  the  Waters,  153. 
The  Minstrel  Boy,  156. 
The  Peri  at  the  Gate,  181. 
The  Steersman's  Song,  198. 
The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing,  177- 
The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant   shrine, 

203. 
The  Vale  of  Cashmere,  160. 
The  young  May  Moon,  198. 
This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show,  204. 
Those  Evening  Bells,  18. 
To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain,  194. 
When  twilight  dews,  193. 
You  remember  Ellen,  197. 


INDEX    OF  A  UTHORS. 


XVll 


Motherwell,  William. 
Jeanie  Morrison,  40. 
The  Cavalier's  Sou-,  151. 
The  Sword-Chaut  of  Thorsteiu  Raiidi, 
1C9. 

MouLTOx,  Louise  Ciiandlee,. 
Jolm  A.  Andrew,  309. 

Muhlenbekg,  William  Augustus. 
I  would  not  live  alway,  320. 

Nairn,  Lady  Caroline. 
The  Land  o'  the  Leal,  G20. 

Neal,  John. 
The  American  Eagle,  113. 

Norton,  Caroline. 
A  Health  to  the  Outward  Bound,  C42. 
Love  not  1  58. 

Norton,  Charles  E. 
To  R.  W.  Emerson,  on  his  Seventieth 
Birthday,  640. 

O'Keeee,  John. 
I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray,  524. 

Parker,  Martyn. 
Ye  gentlemen  of  England,  204. 

Payne,  John  Howard. 
Home,  Sweet  Home,  234. 

Percival,  James  Gates. 
New  England,  115. 
The  Coral  Grove,  471. 
The  Greek  Emigrant's  Song,  118. 
The  Language  of  Flowers,  041. 

Perkins,  James  Handasyd. 
Home,  248. 
It  is  a  beautiful  belief,  219. 


To  S.  S.  F.,  047. 
Why?  100. 

Pickering,  A.  L. 
The  Dead  Dog,  97. 

PiERPONT,  John. 

Hymn  for  the  two  hundredth  Anniver- 
sary of  the  Settlement  of  Charles- 
town,  5. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  128. 

Pindar,  Peter. 
On  a  stone  thrown  that  missed  a  thick 
head,  44. 

Pinkney,  Edward  Coate. 
A  Health,  107. 

Pitt,  William. 
The  Sailor's  Consolation,  35. 

Planche,  J.  11. 
Love's  Ritornella,  259. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan. 
The  Fire-Fiend,  103. 

Pope,  Alexander. 
The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  125. 
The  Universal  Prayer,  402. 

Praed,  Winthrop  Mackworth. 
I  remember,    I    remember,   liow    my 
childhood,  257. 

Procter,  Adelaide  Anne. 

Now,  91. 

One  by  One,  92. 

Sent  to  Heaven,  105. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter. 

Lines  written  the  Night  before  liis 
Execution,  186. 


XV  HI 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Root,  Geoiu;!',  1\ 
The  Battle-Cry  of  Froodoiu,  31.3. 
Tramp,  traiui),  tramp,  318. 

RoscoE,  Miss. 
Tlie  Mourner,  fiO. 

Sargent,  Epes. 
A  life  oil  tlic  oceau  wave,  236. 

Saxe,  John  Godfrey. 
Mourner  a  la  Mode,  COO. 

SCUUECKENBURGER,  MaX. 

The  Watch  on  the  Rhine,  282. 

Scott,  Sir  Walter. 

Alice  Brand,  488. 

Allen-a-Dale,  433. 

An  hour  with  thee,  400. 

Bonnv  Dundee,  547. 

Border  Ballad,  580. 

Briguall  Banks,  243. 

Cadyow  Castle,  190. 

Cavaher  Song,  573. 

Clan-Alpine  Boat-Song,  578. 

Cleveland's  Song  of  Love,  409. 

Cleveland's  Song  to  ]\Iiiina,  50. 

Coronach,  550. 

County  Guy,  59. 

Death' of  Oswald  Wycliffe,  449. 

Ellen  before  Fitz-Janies,  412. 

Elspeth's  Ballad,  568. 

Glee  for  King  Cliarlcs,  574. 

Glenfinlas,  440 

Hellvellyn,  10. 

Ilunting-Song,  567- 

Inscription  for  a  Lighthouse,  477. 

Jock  of  Hazeldeau,  394. 

Lochinvar,  526. 

Love  of  Country,  575. 

Lucy  Ashton's  Song,  627. 

Lullaby  of  an  Infant  Chief,  254. 


MacGregor's  Gathering,  436. 

Merrily  bounds  the  bark,  432. 

Morton  seeking  the  Blind  Widow,  81. 

Nora's  Vow,  427. 

Noma's  Answer  to  the  Dwarf,  456. 

Noma's  Proplicclcs,  41. 

Pil)roch  of  Donuil  Dhu,  21. 

ilebccca's  Hymn,  581. 

Soldier,  rest !  260. 

Song  :  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  572. 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  82. 

The  Bible,  634. 

The  Contest  in  Rokeby  Hall,  445. 

The  Minstrel's  Request,  263. 

The  Rover,  487. 

Time,  452. 

Twist  ye,  twine  ye,  459. 

Woman,  396. 

Sears,  Edmund  Hamilton. 
Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night,  635. 

Sewall,  Harriet  Winslow. 
Why  thus  longing  ?  327. 

Shakspeare,  William. 

Anne  Hathaway,  45. 

Ariel's  Song,  538. 

A  Sea  Dirge,  538. 

Bid  me  discourse,  254. 

Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,  269. 

"Hamlet,"  Extract  from,  454. 

Hotspur,  503. 

Human  Life,  560. 

Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  413. 

Portia's  Charge  to  the  Jew,  617. 

Scene  from  "  King  John,"  466. 

Scene  from  "Macbeth,"  466. 

Sliakspeare's  Epitaph,  247. 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  269. 

Song:  Fear  no  more  the  heat,  551. 

Song  :  Under  the  greenwood  tree,  540. 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred,  541. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


XIX 


Shelley,  Percy  Byssue. 

Aretliusa,  422. 
Tlie  Fugitives,  405. 

Shirley,  James. 
Dcatli's  Filial  Conquest,  497. 

Smith,  Horace. 

Address  to  tlie  Egyptian  Muiiiiiiy  in 
Belzoni's  Exhibition,  116. 

SoANE,  George. 
I  've  oeen  roaming,  252. 

SouTUEY,  Mrs.  Caroline  (Bowles). 

Mariner's  Hymu,  464. 
On  the  Removal  of  some  Family  Por- 
traits, 142. 
Tlie  Last  Journey,  79. 
The  River,  96. 

SouTHEY,  Robert. 
Man's  Pilgrimage,  22. 
The  Inchcape  Rock,  576. 

Sprague,  Charles. 

Tlie  Brothers,  172. 

The  Winged  Worshippers,  201. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence. 
John  Brown  of  Osawatomie,  288. 
Kearny  at  Seven  Pines,  173. 

Sternuold,  Thomas. 
Psalm  XVIII.,  501. 

Stevens,  George  Alexander. 
The  Storm,  108. 

Sullivan,  Mrs.  M.  D. 
The  Blue  Juniata,  245. 

Swain,  Charles. 
Dryburgh  Abboy,  220. 


Swain,  W.  W. 

Charade:  A  bark  from  Tagus',  216. 

Come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave- 
circled  isle,  208. 

Oh,  let  no  change  in  after  years,  209. 

The  Golden  Wedding,  656. 

The  Storm  Petrel,  217. 

Welcome  to  a  Supper  given  to  Dr. 
O.  W.  Holmes,  211. 

Tannahill,  Robert. 
The  Braes  of  Balquither,  51. 

Taylor,  Henry. 
The  Lay  of  Elena,  157. 

Tennyson,  Alfred. 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead,  457. 
Crossing  the  Bar,  673. 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vcre,  529. 
Lady  Clare,  532. 

Tlie  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at 
Balaklava,  280. 

Thomson,  James. 
Rule,  Britannia,  277. 

Timrod,  Henry. 
Ode:   Sleep  sweetly  in  your   humble 
graves,  523. 

T.,  W.  L. 

Dorothy,  383. 

Upton,  George  B. 
Life,  521. 

Wade,  J.  A. 
Meet  me  by  moonlight,  252. 

W^ALLER,  Edmund. 
On  a  Girdle,  4S2. 


XX 


INDEX    OF  AUTHORS. 


Wastell,  Simon. 
Man's  Mortality,  16i. 

AVaterston,  Mrs. 
Together,  293. 

Watts,  Isaac. 
Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne,  57 
From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies, 

63:^. 

The  Heavenly  Land,  461. 

Wedderburn,  Mr. 
On  Franklin,  251. 

Wesley,  Charles. 
Come,  thou  Almighty  King,  121. 
Servant  of  God,  well  done  !  122. 

Weyman,  Charles  S. 
Freraout  and  Victory,  321. 

WniTTiER,  John  Greenleaf. 
At  Port  Royal,  301-. 
Barbara  Frietchie,  315. 
Gone,  165. 
Ichabod,  513. 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield,  383. 
My  Playmate,  479. 
My  Psalm,  371. 
The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  352. 

WiLLAKn,  Mrs. 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep,  1. 


Williams,  Bishop  John. 

Charade  ;    My  lirst,  beloved  of  many, 
225. 

Williams,  Helen  Maria, 
While  Thee  1  seek,  245. 

Willis,  Nathaniel  Parker. 
Lines  (o  a  Lady,  64. 
The  Burial  of  Arnold,  126. 

Wilson,  Mrs.  C.  B. 
Gondola,  63. 

Wither,  George. 
The  Manly  Heart,  544. 

Wolfe,  Charles. 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  554. 

Woodworth,  Samuel. 
The  Old  Oaken  Bucket,  362. 

Wordsworth,  William. 
Rob  Roy's  Grave,  82. 
She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,  185. 
Tiie  Happy  Warrior,  343. 

Work,  Henry  C. 
Marching  through  Georgia,  314. 

WoTTON,  Sir  Henry. 
The  Good  Man,  483. 

Young,  Edward. 
The  Archer,  657. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


PAGE 

A  BARK,  from  Tagus'  golden  straud 216 

A  beggar  tlirough  the  world  am  I 367 

Abou  Beu  Adliem  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 493 

About  that  brow 6 

A  boy  sat  at  my  feet 340 

A  brow  austere,  a  circumspective  eye 40 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 570 

A  famous  man  is  Robin  Hood 82 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf 350 

Ah,  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh  ....          59 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born 402 

Ah,  Mr.  B.,  't  is  half-past  three 76 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave 236 

AUen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning 433 

A  lions,  enfans  de  la  patrie 274 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  they  say 294 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  deliglits 31 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel 512 

And  by  the  lonely  shore  they  laid  him 662 

"  And  I  could  weej),"  the  Oneida  chief 435 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story  !) 116 

And  tiiou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume  ! 444 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 381 

An  hour  with  thee  when  earliest  day 400 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 358 

An  opal  gem,  the  island  lies 213 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  us 165 

Arethusa  arose 422 

A  roar  like  thunder  strikes  the  ear 282 

"  A  sail !  a  sail !  "  —  a  promised  prize  to  Hope  ! 467 


xxii  jyiJEX    OF  FIRST   LINES. 

PACK 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green 225 

Askest,  "  How  long  tliou  slialt  stay  ?  "     . 618 

As  'mid  the  storm-cloud's  parting  veil 211 

As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 65  !• 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 137 

A  steed  —  a  steed  of  mat  elilcss  speed • 151 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house 599 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay 608 

Ave  Sauctissima 188 

Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve  ......          .....  123 

Away,  away  we  bound  o'er  the  deep 26 

Away,  o'er  the  wave  to  the  Lome  we  are  seeking 74 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid 572 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 470 

A  world  where  there 's  nothing  to  eat  or  drink 659 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 516 

Banish  sorrow,  grief  is  folly 34 

Beautiful  !     Sir,  you  may  say  so 555 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne 57 

Begone  !  dull  care 253 

Behold  —  uot  him  we  knew 644 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 180 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirls  the  way 633 

Better  a  sin  which  purposed  wrong  to  none 378 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived 187 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight .  475 

Bid  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear 254 

Bird  of  the  wilderness 263 

Bird  of  untiring  wing 217 

Blest  of  the  highest  gods  are  (hey  who  die 646 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen 485 

Boot,  saddle  to  horse  and  away  ! 589 

Born  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred .  426 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 575 

Breathe,  trumpets,  breathe  slow  notes  of  saddest  wailing 271 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "  —  the  horse  was  brought 468 

Bring  tlie  bowl  which  you  boast 574 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we  '11  have  another  song 314 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  ! .  324 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxiii 

PAGE 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-beu  ! 002 

By  the  hope  -withiu  us  springing 162 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood 594 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 635 

Can  any  mixture  of  earth's  mould 63 

Cease  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mind 57 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  ! 108 

Child,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play 312 

Child  of  earth  with  the  golden  hair 256 

Clang,  elang, — the  massive  anvils  ring S7 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  nie  o'er 233 

Come,  brave  with  me  the  sea,  love 239 

Come  live  wilh  me  and  be  my  love . 262 

Come  not,  when  1  am  dead 457 

Come  take  the  harp,  my  gentle  one 650 

Come,  thou  Almighty  King 121 

Come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave-circled  isle 208 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  ye  languish 636 

Crabbed  age  and  youth  cannot  live  together 269 

Dark  are  thy  woods,  and  sevei'e 456 

Day  breaks  ou  the  mountain 49 

Dear  Governor,  if  my  skill  might  brave 648 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove 471 

Derriere  chez  vous  il  y  a  I'uu  vert  bocage 105 

Distracted  with  care 613 

Does  woman  always  love  where  she  is  loved  ? 149 

Drink  to  her  who  long 140 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 544 

Drink  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best 465 

"  Dry-lighted  soul,"  the  ray  that  shines  in  thee 323 

E'en  such  is  time,  which  takes  on  trust 186 

faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 537 

I'alsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare 78 

False  wizard,  avaunt !   I  have  marshalled  my  clan 605 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever 403 

Fare  thee  well  1  the  ship  is  ready 29 


xxiv  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Farewell !  farewell !  the  voice  you  hear 50 

Farewell,  farewell  to  tliee,  Araby's  daughter  ! 535 

Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 455 

Far,  far  beyond  the  blazing  wanderer's  quest .     .  364 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep 477 

Father  of  all !  in  every  age .     .     .     .  462 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 551 

Fierce  the  sea  is,  and  fickle  if  fair 638 

Fill,  fill  the  sparkling  brimmer  ! 642 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 138 

Fill  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 52 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me 103 

For  he  that  thinks  to  slay  the  soul,  or  he  that  thinks  the  soul  ....  36G 

For  thee.  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love 9 

Four  hundred  thousand  men 310 

Four  straight  brick  walls,  severely  plain 631 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 634 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came 440 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains '.  19 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 430 

From  the  climes  of  the  sun,  all  war-worn  and  weary 133 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 538 

Gay,  guiltless  pair 201 

Gayly  the  Troubadour  touched  his  guitar 251 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile 69 

Gentle  Zitella,  whither  away  ? 259 

Give  all  to  love 628 

Good  frend  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 247 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort 565 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee 129 

Hail,  cliarming  power  of  self-opinion  ! 38 

Hail,  Columbia  !  happy  land  1 283 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 578 

Hail  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread 115 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 280 

"  Harper  !  methinks  thy  magic  lays  " 445 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ? 378 

Hearken  in  your  ear 012 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxv 

PAGE 

Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said 427 

He  asked  me  iiad  1  yet  forgot 157 

He  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the  brave 351 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 550 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  Ses  poor  Tom  Bowling 267 

Here  awa',  there  awa',  waiideriug  Willie 404 

Here  lies  Boney,  stout  of  heart  and  iimb 86 

Here  lies  the  body  of  John  Jack 99 

Here 's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa' 230 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee 545 

Hers  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring 363 

Her  side  is  in  the  water 391 

He  that  hath  sailed  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 77 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 625 

He  wandered  through  the  briery  woods 240 

Higli  walls  and  huge  tlie  bodj/  may  confine 246 

His  own  merits  perceiving,  sure  S through  the  land 53 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  tlie  scenes  of  my  childhood 362 

How  gaily  rows  the  gondolier 61 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  tauglit 483 

How  loud  amid  these  silent  aisles 73 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 551 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 71 

How  the  mountains  talked  together     .     .          335 

Humid  seal  of  soft  affections 393 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray 524 

I  am  a  sou  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars 425 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying 284 

I  climbed  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hellvellyn 10 

I  do  not  count  the  liours  I  spend 640 

If  I  had  a  beau 266 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 167 

If  I  speak  to  thee  in  friendship's  name 624 

If  the  pilgrim  did  not  falter 646 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays 366 

If  thou  dost  find 271 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her 105 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 365 

I  knew,  by  the  smoke  tliat  so  gracefully  curled 195 


xxvi  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

I'll  tell  tliee  why  tliis  weary  world  ineseemetli 90 

I  mourn  no  more  my  vanished  years 371 

I'm  wcariu'  awa',  Jean 620 

In  Eastern  lands  tliey  talk  in  flowers 641 

lu  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb 268 

In  Greece  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land 359 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes 385 

In  olden  time  a  Scottish  elan 6G0 

Insatiate  archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 637 

lu  slumbers  of  midnight,  the  sailor  boy  lay 36 

In  the  deepest  death  of  midnight,  while  the  sad  and  solemn  swell       .     .  103 

lu  the  prison  cell  I  sit,  thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you 318 

lu  this  beloved  marble  view 28 

lu  vaiu,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few 26 

In  vain  the  common  theme  my  tongue  would  shun 517 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  my  childhood  fleeted  by 257 

I  remember,  I  i-emember,  the  house  where  I  was  born 584 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James     ....  390 

Iron  was  his  chest 33 

I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining 176 

I  saw  her  last  night  at  a  party 609 

I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 589 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  way 20 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air 379 

I  slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty 385 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  anrl  Joris,  and  he 603 

Is  the  hope  bright  ?  it  should  be  so 656 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 434 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John 595 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas  time 614 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief 219 

It  is  time  to  be  old 380 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 383 

It  was  not  that  her  radiant  eyes      ..." 658 

It  will  not  speak  ;  then  I  will  follow  it 454 

I  've  been  roaming  where  the  meadow  dew  is  sweet 252 

I  've  wandered  east,  1  've  wandered  west 46 

I  wandered  by  the  brookside 417 

I  would  I  had  a  charmed  boat 30 

I  would  not  live  alway ;  I  ask  not  to  stay 326 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxvii 

PAGE 

Junuy  kissed  me  when  wc  met 182 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  Johu 539 

Jolin  Brown  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  fanner ....  288 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave . 299 

John  puffs  himself ;  forbear  to  chide 58 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  lie  left  us 515 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  hangs  the  citron-flower 164 

Know  then  't  was  I 251 

Know  ye  the  land  wliere  the  bamboo  and  queue  are 25 

Know  ye  the  land  where  tlie  cypress  and  myrtle 414 

Lady,  although  we  have  not  met 388 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere 529 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner  ! 464 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall      . 67 

Let  otliers  laud  the  storm-defying  oak 38 

Let  us  gae,  lassie,  gae 51 

Lie  on,  and  my  revenge  shall  be 41 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art 575 

Like  as  the  dauiask  rose  you  see 164 

Listen,  young  heroes !  your  country  is  calling  ! 135 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 368 

Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming 627 

Lord  Ronald  courted  Lady  Clare 532 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 58 

Love  thou  !  for  though  the  thing  thou  lov'st  must  6.h 370 

Love  wakes  and  weeps 409 

Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain f  346 

MacGaradh  !  MacGaradh  !  red  race  of  the  Tay 228 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part 410 

Man's  is  a  weary  pilgrimage 22 

^March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdiile  ! 580 

Maxwelton's  braes  are  boniiic 238 

Meet  me  by  moonlight  alone 252 

Men  of  England  !  who  inherit 416 

Men  of  the  North,  who  remember 321 

Merrily,  merrily  bounds  the  bark 432 

"  Merry  England  !"  what  a  picture  do  these  simple  words  recall    ...  84 


xxviii  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Merry  it  is  iu  the  good  greenwood 488 

'Mid  pleasures  aud  palaces,  though  we  may  i-oani 234 

Miue  eyes  have  seeu  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord 298 

Move  my  armchair,  faithful  I'ompey 292 

Mr.  Strahau,  —  You  are  a  member  of  Parliauieut 249 

»  My  boat  is  on  the  shore 27 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 478 

My  lirst,  beloved  of  many'au  ancient  dame 225 

My  heart 's  in  the  Highlauds,  my  heart  is  not  here 566 

My  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is 491 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule 428 

My  thoughts  are  bound  within  a  cell  of  care 367 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 124 

No!  is  my  answer  from  this  colli,  bleak  ridge 518 

No,  it  is  not  a  poet's  dream 248 

No  martial  project  to  surprise 616 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms 215 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 576 

Not  a  buck  was  shot,  nor  a  doe,  nor  a  fawn 212 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note 554 

Not  by  thy  bed  of  tedious,  lingering  pain 386 

Now,  Britain,  let  thy  cliffs  o'  snaw 226 

Now,  dear  old  friend  of  many  a  year 658 

Now,  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are     ....  155 

Now,  baud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle 568 

Now  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave 118 

Now,  on  theii-  couch  of  I'est 168 

O  child  of  paradise «i87 

O'er  the  far  blue  mountain,  o'er  the  white  sea-foam •     .  25 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea 472 

O  fair-haired  Northern  hero        293 

Of  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 541 

"  Off,"  said  the  stranger,  "  off,  off,  aud  away  !"....*...•  62 

Of  Nelson  aud  the  North 505 

Oft  in  tlie  stilly  night 536 

O  gentle  Sleep,  who  oft  hast  cradled  me ^^70 

Oh  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green 6'^6 

Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly 255 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxix 

PAGE 

Oh,  Briguall  banks  arc  wild  tiiid  fair 243 

Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour 187 

Oh,  give  me  a  home  by  the  sea 241 

Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own ]  41 

Oh,  haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle      . 148 

Oh,  heard  ye  you  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale 523 

Oh,  hush  thee,  my  babio,  thy  sire  was  a  kniglit 254 

Oh,  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me 418 

Oil,  let  no  change  in  after  years 209 

Oh,  my  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 542 

Oh,  saw  ye  bonuie  Lesley 401 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 287 

Oh,  swiftly  glides  the  bonny  boat 131 

Oh,  the  days  arc  gone  when  beauty  bright 546 

Oh,  the  French  are  on  the  say 149 

Oh,  who  does  not  love  the  bugle-horn  ? 207 

Oil,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West 526 

0  large  of  heart,  and  grand,  and  calm 309 

On  a  lone  barren  isle  where  the  wide-rolling  billow 189 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing 92 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 181 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane 35 

One  still  lingered,  pale  and  last 56 

On  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  stray 421 

Ou  knottiest  points  with  ease  debate 55 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 509 

O  pescator  dell'  onde  Pidelin 240 

0  sunny  Love  ! 189 

Our  bugles  sang  truce  ;  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered 272 

Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors 500 

O  wedding-guest,  this  soul  hath  been 453 

0  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  case 396 

Par  la  voix  du  canon  d'alarnie     . 276 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dim 21 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  siucere  desire 120 

Push  off  the  boat 448 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore 182 

Rise  !  for  the  day  is  passing 91 


XXX  INDEX    OF  FIRST  LIXES. 

PAGE 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarilu  !  hiy  tlic  golden  cusliiou  down 548 

lliver,  river,  little  river 96 

Rocked  iu  the  cradle  of  the  deep 1 

Roll  not  a  drum,  sound  not  a  clarion  note 306 

Row  gcMitly  here 132 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king  ! 561 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Timothy  John 188 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 504 

Seasons  have  passed  away 224 

Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west 503 

Servant  of  God,  well  done  ! 122 

Shades  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us 61 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 621 

Shall  I,  wasting  iu  despair 544 

Shall  we  ever  meet  again 107 

She  bends  above  me  like  a  night 147 

She  flung  her  white  anus  around  him  :  "  Thou  art  all 66 

She  has  gone  down,  they  shout  it  from  afar 308 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing 75 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps 407 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night 477 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 185 

She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know 397 

Should  he  upbraid,  I  '11  own  that  he  prevail 253 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more  ! 269 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 142 

Since  our  country,  our  God,  O  my  sire  ! 500 

Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agineourt 223 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares 457 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves 523 

Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping 286 

Slowly  with  measured  tread .  79 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 513 

Soft  and  softlier  hold  me,  friends  ! 643 

Soft  gleams  the  October  sun 217 

Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er 260 

Solemn  he  paced  upon  that  schooner's  deck 672 

So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 77 

Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea-foam 178 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxxi 

PAGE 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  sl ill  Oil  its  journey 173 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 82 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea 202 

Sparkling  and  briglit  in  liquid  light 237 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away      ....  352 

Speak!  speak!  fiiou  t'eaiiul  guest ! 585 

Spirits  which  hover  round  me,  ye  whose  wings 250 

Star  of  the  brave,  whose  beam  hath  shed 415 

Star  of  the  twilight  gray 231 

Stars,  —  radiant  stars 94 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines 628 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 4S2 

Stranger,  thou  readest  carelessly 386 

Summer  eve  is  gone  and  past 263 

Sunday  in  Old  England 630 

Sunset  and  evening  star 673 

Take,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  soul  liolds  dear 632 

Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away •* 543 

Talk  no  more  of  the  lucky  escape  of  the  head 44 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  while  the  clouds  drop  rain 217 

Tell  me,  kind  Seer,  I  pray  thee 408 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers 373 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 478 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred 541 

Tender-handed  stroke  a  nettle 38 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 482 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 522 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 134 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 3 

The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 455 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho  ! 270 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 399 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 496 

The  dead  are  like  the  stars  by  day 13 

The  Deil  cam  fiddling  through  the  town 429 

The  Dervish  whined  to  Said 339 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall 42 

The  drum's  wild  roll  awakes  the  land  ;  the  fife  is  calling  shrill  ....  651 

The  feeble  sea-birds,  blinded  iu  the  storms 257 


xxxii  INDEX    OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

The  first  was  a  visi(Mi  willi  flaxen  liair 36 

The  gipsies  cam  to  our  Laird's  yett 142 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 497 

The  grave  is  but  a  calmer  bed 5G 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples 0157 

Tlie  hand  of  religion  is  potent  to  save 1 IC) 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 539 

Their  praise  is  hymned  bj  loftier  harps  tliau  mine 54 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece  ! oS2 

The  king  was  on  his  throne (JOl 

Tiie  leaf  floats  by  upon  the  stream 01 

Tiie  little  gate  was  reached  at  last 593 

The  Lord  descended  from  above 501 

The  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year 409 

The  Merchant  Prince  of  England 101 

The  Minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone 156 

The  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star 14 

The  moon  shines  bright  in  such  a  night  as  this 413 

The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist's  on  the  brae 436 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 377 

The  music  clamors  shrill  and  loud 218 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon 372 

The  outmost  crowd  have  heard  a  sound 449 

The  Pilgrim  Tathers,  —  where  are  they  ? 128 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill 479 

The  prophet  Balaam  was  in  wonder  lost 48 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained 017 

There  came,  one  twilight,  midst  the  falling  snows 670 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin 2 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight 461 

There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon 521 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods 420 

There  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die 458 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet     . 153 

'J'here  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride  of  maaiiood  .  86 

There's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told 163 

There 's  a  bower  of  roses  l)y  Bendemeer's  stream 1/3 

There 's  a  fierce  gray  bird,  witli  a  bending  beak 113 

Tiiere 's  a  flag  hangs  over  my  threshold,  whose  folds 296 

There  sat  one  day  in  quiet 597 


INDEX    OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxxiii 

PAGE 

There's  nouglit  but  care  ou  ev'ry  Imu' 23 

Tliere  stands,  iu  t.lic  garden  of  old  St.  Mark 210 

There  was  a  deep  ravine  that  lay Gil 

There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard 104 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 5 10 

The  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 319 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  my  eye ISi 

The  soldier  tired  of  war's  alarms 270 

The  song  bird  has  flown  from  our  sea-girded  isle 227 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 499 

The  stars  their  early  vigils  keep 330 

The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land 304 

The  time  1  've  lost  in  wooing 177 

The  track  of  the  road  followed  the  course  of  the  brook     ......  81 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine 203 

The  waters  are  flashing 405 

The  weather-leech  of  the  topsail  shivers 473 

The  wild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 419 

The  wisest  man  could  ask  no  more  of  fate 382 

The  world  is  bright  before  thee 387 

They  fought  —  like  brave  men,  long  and  well 355 

They  gave  the  fatal  order,  —  Charge  ! 278 

They  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp 525 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love 198 

Thine  eyes  still  shone  for  me,  though  far 627 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 626 

This  bright  wood-fire 199 

This  is  our  place  of  meeting;  opposite 665 

This  is  the  state  of  life,  —  a  passing  shadow 3 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show 20i 

Those  evening  bells  I    those  evening  bells  ! 18 

Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 258 

Thou  who  within  thyself  dost  not  behold 195 

Thus  said  the  Rover 487 

'T  is  done  —  but  yesterday  a  king 39 

'T  is  ever  thus, 't  is  ever  thus,  when  hope  has  built  a  bower      ....  54 

'T  is  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight 169 

To-day  I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine 104 

Toll  for  the  brave    ..." 552 

Too  long,  too  long  a  masquer,  Arthur  comes 607 


xxx'iv  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  \rd\n 194 

To  the  dim  and  gloomy  shore 72 

To  the  Lords  of  Conventio;! 'twas  Claver'se  who  spoke 547 

'T  was  morn,  but  not  the  ray  which  i'alls  the  summer  boughs  among  .     .  220 

'T  was  the  hour  when  rites  unholy  = 411 

'T  was  whispered  in  heaven,  and  't  was  muttered  in  hell 395 

Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conilict  set 175 

Twist  ye,  twine  ye !  even  so 459 

Two  hundred  years,  —  two  hundred  years 5 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye 420 

Under  tlie  greenwood  tree 540 

Untouched  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 41 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn 315 

Up,  spaniel,  —  the  hunter  is  winding  his  horn 97 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame 125 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 567 

War!  war!  no  peace  !•  peace  is  to  me  a  war 466 

Way  down  upon  de  Swanuee  Ribber 235 

We  are  but  two,  —  the  others  sleep 172 

We  are  coming.  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more    .     .     .  302 

We  believe  that  fate  is  less  capricious  than  is  imagined 78 

We '11  sh'd  no  tear,  we '11  breathe  no  sigh 521 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 328 

What  ails  thee,  Dervise?  eat, — dost  thou  suppose .  450 

What  a  pang  of  sweet  emotion 396 

What  fairy-like  music 63 

What  gleams  from  yon  wood  in  the  bright  sunshine  ? 183 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 205 

What 's  hallowed  ground?     Has  earth  a  clod 45'J 

What  strange,  deep  secret  dost  thou  hold,  O  death 96 

What  though  the  sun  must  set,  and  darkness  come 28 

Wha  will  ride  wi'  gallant  Murray  ? 232 

When  all  was  hushed  at  eventide 437 

When  breezes  arc  soft  and  skies  are  fair 361 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command 277 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay , 498 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 300 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxxv 

PAGE 

When  freshly  blows  the  iiortlieru  g;ile  . 198 

Wlicn  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 110 

Wlien  in  death  I  shall  calm  recline 154 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved 581 

When  love  with  unconfiucd  wings 619 

Wlien  nielanclioly,  born  of  sin G47 

When  o'er  the  silent  seas  alone  , 130 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 1 90 

When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ? 617 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 466 

When  the  British  warrior  queen 502 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 592 

When  the  glow-worn  gilds  the  elfin  flower 255 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered 376 

When  the  Moorish  cymbals  clash  by  day 183 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened 179 

Wiicii  tlie  tide's  billowy  swell 59 

Wlieu  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away 24 

Wiu'u  twilight  dews  are  falling  soft 193 

When  you  mournfully  rivet  your  tear-laden  eyes 186 

Where,  oh,  where  are  the  visions  of  morning 375 

Where  olive-leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind  that  blew 357 

Wliere  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I 538 

Wliich  I  wish  to  remark 557 

While  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray 573 

While  thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power ! 245 

Who  counts  himself  as  nobly  born 559 

Wiioe'er  he  be 622 

Who  lias  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere 160 

Who  is  tlie  happy  Warrior  ?  Who  is  he 343 

Who  rides  there  so  late  through  the  night  dark  and  drear  ?       ....  196 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 338 

Why  sitt'st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall 452 

Why  thus  longing,  tlius  forever  sighing 327 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 394 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks 331 

Wild  roved  an  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata 245 

Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielans,  Leezie  Liudsay  ? 261 

Wilt  thou  not  waken.  Bride  of  May 65 

Wilt  thou  tempt  the  waves  with  me 650 


xxxvi  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Withdraw  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers 456 

With  feelings  strange  and  undefined  I  gaze  upon  thy  face    ......  15 

Within  this  awful  volume  lies 634 

Within  't  was  brilliant  all  and  light 412 

Woo  her  when  with  rosy  blush 60 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng 45 

Ye  are  gone,  ye  are  gone,  friends  of  my  youth 12 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon 21^2 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England 264 

Ye  hunters  of  New  England 206 

Ye  mariners  of  England  ! 507 

Ye  mariners  of  Spain 152 

Yes,  we '11  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  again 313 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 494 

Ye 've  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer 126 

You  know  we  Frcneh  stormed  Ratisbon 273 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride 197 

You  say  that  my  love  is  plain 383 

You  tell  me  you  're  promised  a  lover 7 

You  wonder  why  I  still  would  seek 100 


AN    OLD    SCRAP-BOOK, 


WITH    ADDITIONS. 


EXILE   OF  ERIN. 


EXILE   OF   ERIN. 


There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 
Eor  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  rejjairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion. 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion. 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger  : 
The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  Hee, 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Erin,  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 
But,  alas  !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more ! 
0  cruel  fate !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 
In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils  can  chase  me  ? 
Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ? 

They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore ! 

Yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin  !  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing  ! 
Land  of  my  fathers  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 


LANDING   OF   THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  3 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  tields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  hards  sing  aloud,  with  devotion, 

Erin  niavournin  —  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

Campbell. 
First  copied  by  me  about  1821  ;  a  schoolboy  taste. 


LIFE. 

This  is  the  state  of  life,  —  a  passing  shadow  will  throw  down 
the  baseless  fabric  of  man's  hopes.  And  when  the  tablets  of 
this  fleeting  state  are  charactered  with  all  felicity,  comes  Death 
with  a  sponge  moistened  in  gall,  and  wipes  the  beauteous 
lineaments  away.  O^^  ^^^^^^  ^^^^^^^ 

Hi'iul  liy  Mr.  Nazuo,  Elocution  master,  at  Round  Hill,  1827. 


THE   LANDING   OF   THE   PILGEIM   FATHERS   IX 
NEW  ENGLAND. 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  Ijand  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums. 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame  ; 


LANDING   OF  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

111  silence  and  in  fear  ;  — 
They  shook  the  depths  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  theu'  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea  ; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  the  pilgrim  band  : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there. 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth  ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?  — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine. 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod  ; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found,  — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 

Copied  :  Canton,  Dec.  23,  1830. 


ANNIVERSARY  HYMN. 


HYMN   FOR  THE  TWO   HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF 
THE   SETTLEMENT   OF   CHARLESTOWN. 

Two  liimdred  years, —  two  hundred  years, — 
How  much  of  human  power  and  pride, 

What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears. 
Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide  ! 

The  red  man,  at  his  horrid  rite, 

Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon, — 

His  bark  canoe,  its  track  of  light 

Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon,  — 

His  dance,  his  yell,  his  council  fire, 

The  altar  where  his  victim  lay, 
His  death  song,  and  his  funeral  pyre,  — 

That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away. 

And  that  pale  pilgrim  band  is  gone. 
That  on  this  shore  with  trembling  trod, 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  God. 

And  war,  that,  since,  o'er  ocean  came, 
And  thundered  loud  from  yonder  hill, 

And  wrapped  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame. 
To  blast  that  ark,  —  its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 

That  live  in  story  and  in  song. 
Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years, 

Has  raised,  and  shown,  and  swept  along. 


ABOUT   THAT  BROW. 

'T  is  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes,  — 
This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old  ; 

'T  is  like  the  moon  when  morning  breaks  ; 
'T  is  like  a  tale  round  watch-fires  told. 

Then  what  are  we,  —  then  what  are  we  ?  — 
Yes,  when  two  hundred  years  have  rolled 

O'er  our  green  graves,  our  names  shall  he 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told. 

God  of  our  fathers,  in  whose  sight 
The  thousand  years,  that  sweep  away 

Man,  and  the  traces  of  his  might, 
Are  but  the  break  and  close  of  day, 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime, 
That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee. 

That  makes  thy  children,  in  all  time, 
To  share  thine  own  eternity. 

PlERPONT. 
Copied  :  Canton,  Dec.  23,  1830. 


ABOUT   THAT   BROW. 

About  that  brow 

Ne'er  did  a  smile  in  dimples  shine 
That  I  've  forgotten  now  : 

No,  I  remember  all 
Thy  winning  power. 

And  oft  will  memory  recall 
The  rapture  of  that  hour 

When  broke  upon  my  longing  sight 


.1    LETTER    OF  ADVICE. 

Thy  form,  as  welcome  then 

As  the  first  beam  of  Diorning  light 
To  lone,  benighted  men. 

Away  !  —  my  bark  upon  the  wave 

Is  riding  now  ; 
The  ebbing  tide's  last  ripples  lave 

Her  curling  prow. 
Upon  her  deck  my  foot  must  tread, 

Unfurled  her  sail ; 
On  the  blue  wave  my  path  be  sped, 

Before  the  swelling  gale. 
But  ere  I  go  I  ask  of  thee. 

Maiden,  a  boon  : 
Bestow  but  one  brief  thought  on  me 

When  I  am  gone. 

Anonymous. 

Copied  :  Canton,  Dec.  23,  1830. 


A   LETTER   OF   ADVICE   FROM   MISS   M.   T. 
TO   ARAMINTA. 

You  tell  me  you  're  promised  a  lover. 

My  own  Araminta,  next  week  ; 
Why  cannot  my  fancy  discover 

The  hue  of  his  coat  and  his  cheek  ? 
Alas,  if  he  look  like  another, 

A  vicar,  a  banker,  a  beau, 
I'e  deaf  to  your  father  and  mother. 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 


A    LETTER    OF  ADVICE. 

If  he  wear  a  top-boot  in  his  wooing, 

If  he  come  to  you  riding  a  cob, 
If  he  talk  of  his  baking  or  brewing, 

If  he  puts  up  his  feet  on  the  liob, 
If  he  ever  drinks  port  after  dinner. 

If  his  brow  or  his  breeding  is  low, 
If  he  calls  himself  "  Thompson  "  or  "  Skinner," 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 

If  he  studies  the  news  in  the  papers 

While  you  are  preparing  the  tea. 
If  he  talks  of  the  damps  and  the  vapors 

While  moonlight  lies  soft  on  the  sea, 
If  he  's  sleepy  while  you  are  capricious, 

If  he  has  not  a  musical  "  Oh," 
If  he  does  not  call  Werther  delicious. 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 

If  he  ever  sets  foot  in  the  city 

Among  the  stock-brokers  and  Jews, 
If  he  has  not  a  heart  full  of  pity. 

If  he  don't  stand  six  feet  in  his  shoes, 
If  his  Hps  are  not  redder  than  roses, 

If  his  hands  are  not  whiter  than  snow. 
If  he  has  not  the  model  of  noses. 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No ! 

If  he  speak  of  a  tax  or  a  duty, 

If  he  does  not  look  grand  on  his  knees, 
If  he  's  blind  to  a  landscape  of  beauty,  — 

Hills,  valleys,  rocks,  waters,  and  trees, — 
If  he  dotes  not  on  desolate  towers. 

If  he  likes  not  to  hear  the  blast  blow. 
If  he  knows  not  the  language  of  flowers, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No ! 


FOR    THEE,   LOVE,  — FOR    THEE,  LOVE. 

He  must  walk  like  a  god  of  old  story 

Come  down  from  the  home  of  his  rest ; 
He  must  smile  like  the  sun  in  his  glory 

On  the  buds  he  loves  ever  the  best ; 
And  oh,  from  his  ivory  portal, 

Like  music  the  soft  speech  must  flow  : 
If  he  speak,  smile,  or  walk  like  a  mortal, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 

Don't  listen  to  tales  of  his  bounty, 

Don't  hear  what  they  tell  of  his  birth, 
Don't  look  at  his  seat  in  the  county, 

Don't  calculate  what  he  is  worth, 
But  give  him  a  theme  to  write  verse  on. 

And  see  if  he  turn  out  his  toe ; 
If  he 's  only  an  excellent  person, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 


Anonymous. 


Copied  :  Canton,  Dec.  25,  1830. 


FOR   THEE,   LOVE, —  FOR   THEE,   LOVE. 

For  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love, 

I  '11  brave  Fate's  sternest  storm  ; 
She  cannot  daunt  or  chill  the  heart 

That  love  keeps  bold  and  warm. 
And  when  her  clouds  are  blackest,  nought 

But  thy  sweet  self  I  '11  see, 
Nor  hear  amidst  the  tempest  aught 

But  thee.  Love,  —  only  thee  ! 

For  thee.  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love, 
My  fond  heart  would  resign 


10  SONG. 

The  brightest  cup  that  Tleasure  fills, 
And  Fortune's  wealthiest  mine; 

P'or  Pleasure's  smiles  are  vanity, 
And  fortunes  fade  or  flee  : 

There  's  purity  and  constancy 
In  thee,  Love,  —  only  thee. 

For  thee.  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love, 

Life  's  lonely  vale  I  '11  tread, 
And  aid  thy  steps  the  journey  through. 

Nor  quit  thee  till  I  'm  dead. 
And  even  then  round  her  I  love 

My  shade  shall  hovering  be, 
i\va\  warl)b  notes  from  heaven  above, 

To  thee,  Love,  —  onlv  thee. 


Copied  in  China. 


AXONYMOLS. 


HELLVELLYN. 

I  CLIMBED  the  dark  brow  of  the  mighty  Hellvellyu, 

Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleamed  misty  and  wide; 

All  was  still,  save,  by  fits,  when  the  eagle  was  yelling, 
And  starting  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 

On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was  bending, 

And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 

One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 

"When  I  marked  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer  had  died. 

Dark  green  was  that  spot  mid  the  brown  mountain-heather, 
Where  the  Pilgrim  of  Nature  lay  stretched  in  decay 

Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather. 
Till  the  mountain-winds  wasted  the  tenantless  clay. 


IIELLVELLYN.  \\ 

Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended, 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favorite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended, 
And  chased  the  hill-fox  and  the  raven  away. 

ll(»\v  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was  slumber? 

When  the  wind  waved  his  garment,  how  oft  didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou  number 

Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  oh  !  was  it  meet  that —  no  requiem  read  o'er  him, 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him. 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretched  bafore  him  — 

Unhonored  the  Pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

When  a  Prince  to  the  fate  of  the  Peasant  has  yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted  hall ; 

With  scutcheons  of  silver  the  coffin  is  shielded, 
And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall : 

Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torches  are  gleaming, 

In  the  proudly  arched  chapel  the  banners  are  beaming ; 

Far  adown  the  long  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming, 
Lamenting  a  Chief  of  the  People  should  fall. 

But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature. 

To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain  lamb  ; 

When,  wildered,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in  stature, 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 

And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake  lying, 

Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying. 

With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying. 
In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 

Scott. 


12  TIME. 


T  I  ]\I  E. 

Ye  are  gone,  ye  are  gone,  friends  of  my  youth. 
In  the  spring-time  of  hope  and  love ; 

Ye  are  gone  in  the  bloom  of  unfading  truth 
To  the  stainless  worlds  above. 

I  '11  not  weep  for  you,  friends  of  my  youth, 

Nor  sigh  o'er  your  ruined  prime  ; 
Death,  the  proud  archer,  hath  more  of  trutli 

Than  the  stately  graybeard.  Time. 

He  comes  but  the  fleeting  hues  to  steal, 

Of  the  cheek's  carnation  dye. 
Or  the  print  of  his  iron  hand  to  seal 

On  the  eyes'  dark  brilliancy. 

Death  can  but  sever  the  mortal  link 

That  bindeth  the  kindred  clay, 
Whilst  bright  through  the  archway's  ruined  chink 

Faith's  golden  sunbeams  stray. 

But  Time,  the  rude  spoiler,  comes,  alas ! 

"With  a  heavier,  deeper  woe ; 
Wasting  our  years,  like  the  sands  of  his  glass, 

In  a  dull  and  certain  flow. 


HYMN.  13 

In  fiicndship's  wane  and  passion's  decline^ 

There  's  nothing  on  earth  so  dear 
As  the  twhikling  lights  which  again  may  shina 

In  a  distant  hemisphere. 

( )h,  Death,  the  proud  archer,  hath  more  of  truth 
Thau  the  stealthy  graybeard.  Time. 


M.  A.  C. 


Copied  in  China  :  only  identified  by  the  initials. 


HYMN. 


The  dead  are  like  the  stare  by  day 
Withdrawn  from  mortal  eye, 

Yet  holding  unperceived  their  way 
Through  the  unclouded  sky. 

By  them,  through  holy  hope  and  love, 

We  feel,  in  hours-  serene, 
Connected  with  a  world  above, 

Immortal  and  unseen. 

For  death  his  sacred  seal  hath  set 

On  bright  and  bygone  hours  ; 
And  they  we  mourn  are  witli  us  yet. 
And  more  than  ever  ours. 

Ours,  by  the  pledge  of  love  and  faith, 
By  hopes  of  heaven  on  high ; 

By  trust,  triumphant  over  death 
In  immortality. 


Anonymous. 


14  THE   MOON  IS    UP,    THE  EVENING   STAR. 


THE   MOON   IS   UP,   THE   EVENING   STAR. 

The  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star 
Shines  lonely  from  its  home  of  blue. 

The  fox  howl 's  heard  from  the  fell  afar, 
And  the  earth  is  robed  in  sombre  hue  ; 

From  the  shores  of  light  the  beams  come  down 

On  the  river's  breast  and  the  cold  grave-stone. 

Tlie  kindling  fires  in  heaven  so  bright 
Look  sweetly  out  from  yon  azure  sky, 

While  the  glittering  pearls  of  the  dewy  night 
Seem  trying  to  mimic  their  brilliancy  ; 

Yet  all  these  charms  no  joy  can  bring 

To  the  dead  in  the  cold  grave  slumbering. 

To  numbers  wild,  yet  sweet  withal. 

Should  the  harp  be  struck  on  the  sleepy  pillow. 
Soft  murmuring,  as. the  breezes  fall, 

Of  sighing  winds  on  the  foamy  billow ; 
For  who  would  disturb,  in  their  silent  bed. 
The  fancied  dreams  of  the  lonely  dead  ? 

Oh,  is  there  one  in  this  world  can  say 
That  the  soul  exists  not  after  death, 

That  the  powers  which  illumine  this  mould  of  clay 
Are  but  a  puff  of  common  breath  ? 

Oh,  come  this  night  to  the  grave  and  see 

The  sleepy  state  of  your  destiny. 

I  "ve  seen  the  moon  gild  the  mountain's  brow, 
I  've  watched  the  mist  over  the  river  stealing ; 


ro  A    NEWLY  OPENED   OYSTER.  15 

But  ne'er  did  I  feel  in  my  breast  till  now 
So  calm,  so  pure,  and  so  holy  a  feeling : 
'T  is  soft  as  the  thrill  that  memory  throws 
Athwart  the  soul  in  the  hour  of  repose. 

Thou  Father  of  all  in  the  worlds  of  light. 

Fain  would  my  spirit  aspire  to  thee, 
And  through  the  screen  of  this  gentle  night 

Behold  the  dawn  of  eternity  ; 
For  this  the  path  which  thou  hast  given. 
The  only  path  to  the  bliss  of  heaven. 

Anonymous. 


TO   A   NEWLY   OPENED    OYSTER. 

With  feelings  strange  and  undefined  I  gaze  upon  thy  face, 
Thou  choice  and  juicy  specimen  of  an  ill-fated  race  ! 
How  calmly,  yea,  how  meekly  thou  reclinest  in  thy  shell. 
Yet  what  thy  woes  and  sufferings  are  man  can  conjecture  well ! 
For  thou  wert  torn   from  friends   and  home,  and  all  thy  heart 

could  wish. 
Thou  hapless,  helpless  innocent!  mute,  persecuted  fish! 
Tliou  wert  happy  in  thy  native  bed,  where  blithesome  billows 

Till  the  cruel  fisher  fished  thee  from  home,  sweet  home,  away. 
He  stowed  thee  in  his  coble,  and  he  rowed  thee  to  the  strand ; 
Thou  wert  bought  and  sold  and  opened,  and  placed  in  this  tight 

hand. 
1  know  that  while  I  moralize  thy  flavor  fades  away  ; 
I  know  thou  shouldst  be  ate  alive  before  thy  sweets  decay ; 
1  know  that  it  is  foolishness,  this  weak  delay  of  mine, 
And  epicures  may  laugh  at  it  as  sentimental  whine. 


16  THE  MARINER'S  DREAM. 

Well,  let  them  laugh,  I  still  will  drop  a  tear  o'er  thy  sad  fate, 

Thou  wretehed  aud  ill-fated  one,  thou  sad  disconsolate  ! 

O'er  thee  and  o'er  thy  kindred  hangs  an  all-consuming  doom. 

To  die  a  slow  and  Hngering  death,  in  living  find  a  tomb. 

Like  the  Indian  frtun  the  forest,  like  the  roebuck  from  the  glen, 

Thy  race  is  dwindling  silently  before  the  arts  of  men ; 

Ye  are  passing  from  the  river,  from  the  sea-bank,  from  the  shore, 

And  the  haunts  that  long  have  known  ye  shall  know  ye  soon  no 

more. 
The  "  Blue  Point "  and  the  "  Shrewsbury  "  are  fading  fast  away. 
And  clamless  soon  will  be  our  streams,  and  oysterless  our  bay. 
Why  were  ye  made  so  racy,  rich,  and  luscious  to  the  taste? 
'T  is  this  has  stripped  your  thickest  banks,  and  made  your  beds 

a  waste. 

Your  virtues  are  made  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  ye, 

And  that  which  was  your  proudest  boast  has  served  but  to 

undo  ye. 

Anonymous. 

Copied  in  China,  April  30,  18.31. 


THE   MARINEE'S   DREAM. 

In  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy  lay ; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind ; 
But,  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away, 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers. 
And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  morn ; 

While  memory  stood  sideways,  half  covered  with  flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 


THE   MARINER'S   DREAM.  17 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise  ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide. 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flowers  o'er  the  thatch. 

And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the  wall ; 

All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises  the  latch. 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight ; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  mother's  warm  tear ; 
And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast ; 

Joy  quickens  his  pulses,  his  hardships  seem  o'er; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his  rest,  — 

"  0  God  !  thou  hast  blest  me,  —  I  ask  for  no  more." 

Ah !  whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye  ? 

Ah !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  'larms  on  his  ear  ? 
'T  is  the  lightning's  red  gleam,  painting  hell  on  the  sky ; 

'T  is  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the  sphere. 

He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flies  to  the  deck ; 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire  ; 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel  a  wreck  ; 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters ;  the  shrouds  are  on  fire. 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swell ; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save ; 
Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell. 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wings  o'er  the  wave. 


1!^  THOSE   EVENING  BELLS. 

* 
( )  sailor  boy,  woe  to  thy  dreain  of  delight ! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frostwork  of  bliss. 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touched  bright,  — 

Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honeyed  kiss  ? 

O  sailor  boy,  sailor  boy,  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay  ; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  the  main. 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee, 
Or  redeem  form  or  frame  from  the  merciless  surge  ; 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds  in  the  midnight  of  winter  thy  dirge. 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flow^ers  thy  Umbs  shall  be  laid. 
Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow ; 

Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made. 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  shall  circle  away, 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll ; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye,  — - 
0  sailor  boy,  sailor  boy,  peace  to  thy  soul ! 

William  Dimond. 
Copied  in  China,  May  4,  1831. 


THOSE   EVENING  BELLS. 

Those  evening  bells !  those  evening  bells  ! 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime ! 


MISSIONARY  HYMN.  19 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone  — 

That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on ; 

While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 

And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

Moore. 
China,  1831. 


MISSIONARY   HYMK 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains. 

From  India's  coral  strand. 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Eoll  down  their  golden  sand  ; 
From  many  an  ancient  river. 

From  many  a  palmy  plain. 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 

Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle ; 
Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile ; 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strewn : 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 


20  THE  MOONLIGHT  MARCH. 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, — 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation,  oh,  salvation,  — 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learnt  Messiah's  name. 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds.  His  story. 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Eedeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign. 

Heber. 
Copied:  June  14,  1831. 


THE   MOONLIGHT   MAECH. 

I  SEE  them  on  their  winding  way  ; 
About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play  ; 
Their  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high 
Blend  with  the  notes  of  victory. 
And  waving  arms  and  banners  bright 
Are  glancing  in  the  mellow  light : 
They  're  lost  and  gone,  the  moon  is  past. 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast ; 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still. 
The  march  is  risiag  o'er  the  hilL 


PIBROCH  OF  DONUIL  DllfJ.  21 

Again,  again,  the  pealing  drum, 
The  clashing  horn ;  they  come,  they  come ! 
Through  rocky  pass,  o'er  wooded  steep. 
In  long  and  glittering  files  they  sweep ; 
And  nearer,  nearer,  yet  more  near, 
Their  softened  chorus  meets  the  ear. 
Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way  ! 
The  trampling  hoofs  brook  no  delay ; 
With  thrilling  fife,  and  pealing  drum, 
And  clashing  horn,  they  come,  they  come ! 

Heber. 
Copied  :  June  15,  1831. 


PIBROCH   OF   DONUIL   DHU. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away. 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array. 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  the  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky  ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one ; 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 


22  MAN'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Leave  untended  the  herd. 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  cpme,  faster  come. 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume. 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

Scott. 
Copied  :  June  17,  1831.      The  childieii  and  graiidchildreu  will  reiuciiilier  this 
ill  the  nurseiy. 

MAN'S    PILGEIMAGE. 

Man's  is  a  weary  pilgrimage, 

As  through  this  world  he  wends ; 

In  every  age,  from  stage  to  stage, 
Still  discontent  attends. 


GREEN   GROW   THE   RASHES.  23 

With  weariness  he  casts  liis  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

"  The  days  that  are  no  more." 

SOUTHEY. 

Co[iieci  in  China,  Sunday,  July  3,  1831.     "  Just  one  year  since  I  drove  Mis.  F. 
and  the  girls  into  Boston  to  see  the  barque  'Lintin.'  " 


GEEEN   GROW   THE   RASHES. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

There  's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  ban', 
In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O  ; 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An'  't  were  na  for  the  lasses,  0  ? 

Chorus. 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  0  ; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent, 

Were  spent  among  the  lasses,  0  ! 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase. 
An'  riches  still  may  Hy  tliem,  0  ; 

An'  though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  0. 
Green  grow,  &c. 

But  gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  0  ; 

An'  warly  cares  an'  warly  men 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 
Green  grow,  &c. 


24  SONG. 


For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye  're  nouglit  but  senseless  asses,  O ; 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw. 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  0. 

Green  grow,  &c. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 

Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O  ; 
Her  'prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man. 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 
Green  grow,  &c. 

Burns. 


SONG. 

When  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away, 
Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too. 

The  memory  of  the  past  will  stay. 
And  half  our  joys  renew. 

Then,  Chloe,  when  thy  beauty's  flower 

Shall  feel  the  wintry  air, 
Eemembrance  will  recall  the  hour 

AVhen  thou  alone  wert  fair ! 

Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom  : 

Our  joys  shall  always  last ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come. 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 


Moore. 


THE  RECALL.  25 

KNOW   YE   THE   LAND? 

A     PAKODY. 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  bamboo  and  queue  are, 
The  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  m  the  cHme, 
Where  priestly  fond  writers  the  primest  of  swells  are, 
And  nothing  in  nature  or  man  is  sublime  ? 
Where  the  flowers  have  no  smell,  no  flavor  the  fruit, 
And  't  is  stupid  to  talk,  and  there 's  nothing  to  shoot ; 
Where  the  earth  is  burnt  mud  and  the  sky  is  all  blaze. 
Where  the  dew  is  death  fog  and  the  air  a  red  blaze. 
And  the  beautiful  blue  of  the  exquisite  land 
Is  a  compound  of  blue  mud  and  brick-dust  and  sand  ? 
'T  is  the  land  of  the  East,  't  is  the  region  of  curry, 
That  slowly  we  come  to  and  leave  in  a  hurry : 
Know  ye  the  land  ?     My  good  friend,  if  you  do. 
By  the  Lord  I  don't  envy  you  :  I  know  it  too  ! 

Anonymous. 

THE   RECALL. 

O'er  the  far  blue  mountain,  o'er  the  white  sea-foam. 
Come,  thou  long-parted  one,  back  to  thy  home  : 
When  the  bright  fire  shineth,  sad  looks  thy  place ; 
While  the  true  heart  pineth,  missing  thy  face. 

Music  is  sorrowful  since  thou  art  gone, 
Sisters  are  mourning  thee ;  come  to  thine  own. 
Hark  !  the  home  voices  call  back  to  thy  rest ; 
Come  to  thy  father's  hall,  thy  mother's  breast. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 
Copied  :   Oct.  23,  1831. 


26  IX  VAIN,   ALAS!  IN   VAIN. 


AWAY,   AWAY   WE   BOUND   O'ER   THE  DEEP. 

Aavay,  away  we  bound  o'er  tlie  deep  ; 
Lightly,  brightly  our  merry  hearts  leap ; 
Homeward  we  sail  to  the  land  of  our  love, 
The  starlight  beacon  shining  above. 
Softly,  sweetly  the  murmurs  of  song 
Pour  on  the  ear  as  we  hasten  along. 
Gently  breathed  from  the  mariner's  lips, 
As  the  oar  in  the  waveless  mirror  he  dij:)s. 

Swiftly  we  glide,  and,  oh,  as  we  near 
The  haven,  the  home  of  those  we  love  dear, 
We  think  not  of  woe,  we  dream  not  of  ill, 
For  our  star  all  lovely  shines  on  us  still. 
Away,  then,  with  hope  we  dash  o'er  the  deep ; 
Lightly,  brightly  our  merry  hearts  leap ; 
Homeward  we  sail  to  the  land  of  our  love. 
By  the  starlight  beacon  shining  above. 

ANONYMOrS. 

Mrs.  M.  Olivia  Long's  song. 


IN   VAIN,  ALAS  !   IN   VAIN. 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few. 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew. 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  on  the  book  of  Time  ! 
Sarmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe. 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe ! 


31  r  BOAT  IS   ON   THE   SHORE.  27 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  arm  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye  and  curbed  her  high  career : 
Hope  for  a  season  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked  as  Kosciusko  fell. 

Campbell,  Pleasures  of  Hope. 

Copied  :  March  7,  1832.     A  report  of  tlie  surrender  of  Warsaw  (via  Manilla). 


MY   BOAT   IS   ON   THE   SHOEE. 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee. 

Here  's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  smile  to  those  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky 's  above  me. 
Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  ine, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirits  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine. 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  —  Peace  with  thine  and  mine. 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

Byron. 
Copied  in  China. 


28  EXPOSTULATION. 


THE   HELEN   OF   CANOVA. 

In  this  beloved  marble  view, 

Beyond  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man, 
What  Nature  could,  but  would  not  do, 

And  Beauty  and  Canova  can. 

Beyond  imagination's  power, 
Beyond  the  Bard's  defeated  art, 

With  immortality  her  dower. 
Behold  the  Helen  of  the  Heart. 

Byron. 


EXPOSTULATION. 

What  though  the  sun  must  set,  and  darkness  come. 
Shall  we  turn  coldly  from  the  blessed  light. 
And  o'er  tlie  heavens  call  an  earlier  gloom. 
Because  the  longest  day  must  end  in  night  ? 
What  though  the  golden  summer  flies  so  fast, 
Shall  we  neglect  the  rosy  wreaths  she  brings. 
Because  their  blooming  sweetness  may  not  last, 
And  winter  comes  again  with  snowy  wings  ? 
What  though  this  world  be  but  the  journeying  land. 
Where  those  who  love  but  meet  to  part  again  ; 
Where,  as  we  clasp  in  welcome  friendship's  hand. 
The  greeting  clasp  becomes  a  parting  strain  ? 
'T  is  better  to  be  blessed  for  one  short  hour, 
Than  never  know  delight  of  love  or  joy. 
Friendship,  or  mirth,  or  happiness,  or  power, 
And  all  that  Time  creates,  and  must  destroy. 

F.  A.  Kemble. 


THE   SHIP  IS  READY.  29 


THE   SHIP   IS   READY. 

Fare  thee  well !  the  ship  is  ready, 
And  the  breeze  is  fresh  and  steady ; 
Hands  are  fast  the  anchor  weighing,' 
High  in  air  the  streamers  playing. 
Spread  the  sails  ;  the  waves  are  swelling 
Proudly  round  thy  buoyant  dwelling  : 
Fare  thee  well !  and  when  at  sea, 
Think  of  those  who  sigh  for  thee. 

When  from  land  and  home  receding, 
And  from  hearts  that  ache  to  bleeding, 
Think  of  those  behind  that  love  thee. 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee  ; 
Then,  as  down  the  ocean  glancing, 
With  the  waves  his  rays  are  dancing. 
Think  how  long  the  night  will  be 
To  eyes  that  weep  for  thee. 

When  the  lonely  night-watch  keeping, 
All  below  thee  still  and  sleeping, 
As  the  needle  points  the  quarter. 
On  the  wide  and  trackless  water. 
Let  thy  vigils  ever  find  thee 
Mindful  of  the  friends  behind  thee ; 
Let  thy  bosom's  magnet  be 
Turned  to  those  who  wake  for  thee. 

When  with  slow  and  gentle  motion 
Heaves  the  bosom  of  the  ocean. 
While  in  peace  thy  bark  is  riding. 
And  the  silver  moon  is  gliding 


30  THE  LAKE   OF   WINDERMERE. 

On  the  sky  with  tranquil  s^jlendor, 
When  the  shining  hosts  attend  her, 
Let  the  brightest  vision  be, 
Country,  home,  and  friends  to  thee. 

When  the  tempest  hovers  o'er  thee, 
Danger,  death,  and  wreck  before  thee, 
While  the  sword  of  fire  is  gleaming, 
Wild  the  winds,  the  torrents  streaming. 
Then,  a  pious  suppliant  bending. 
Let  thy  thoughts  ascending 
Eeach  the  mercy- seat  to  be 
Met  by  prayers  that  rise  for  thee. 

Miss  H.  F.  Gould. 

Copied  off  Cape  Bank,  Sunday,  March  7,  1833. 


THE   LAKE   OF   WINDEEMERE. 

I  WOULD  I  had  a  charmed  boat 

To  sail  that  lovely  lake. 
Nor  should  another  prow  but  mine 

Its  silver  silence  wake. 
No  one  should  cleave  its  sunny  tide. 

But  I  would  float  along 
As  if  the  breath  that  filled  my  sail 

Was  but  a  murmured  song. 

Then  I  would  think  all  pleasant  thoughts, 

Live  early  youth  anew, 
When  hope  took  tunes  of  prophecy. 

And  tones  of  music  too, 


GENEVIEVE.  31 

And  colored  life  with  its  own  hues, 
The  heart's  true  "  Claude  Lorraine," 

The  rich,  the  warm,  the  beautiful,  — 
I  'd  live  them  once  again. 

Kind  faces  flit  before  my  eyes, 

Sweet  voices  fill  my  ear  ; 
And  friends  I  long  have  ceased  to  love, 

I  '11  still  think  loved  and  here. 
With  such  fair  phantasies  to  fill, 

Sweet  lake,  thy  summer  air, 
If  thy  banks  were  not  paradise, 

Yet  I  would  dream  they  were. 

Miss  L.  E.  Landon. 

M.  P.  F.     Copied  off  Isle  of  France,   Sunday,  March  24,   1833,   on  board 
lip  "  Alert." 


GENEVIEVE. 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights. 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour. 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene.. 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 


32  GENEVIEVE. 

She  listened  with  a  Hitting  bhish, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined ;  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 


His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve : 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng. 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  Ions. 


ON  A    MISER.  33 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  l)lushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept,  —  • 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

Coleridge. 


ON  A   MISER. 

Ieox  was  his  chest, 

Iron  his  door : 
His  hand  was  iron ; 

His  heart  was  more. 

Anonymous. 
8 


34  Dill  X  KING-SONG. 


DRINKING-SONG. 

Banish  sorrow,  grief  is  folly  ; 

Thought,  unheiid  thy  wrinkled  brow  ; 
Hence,  dull  care  and  melancholy  ; 

Joy  and  mirth  await  us  now. 
Bacchus  opens  all  his  treasures, 

Comus  gives  us  wit  and  song; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure  ; 

Let  us  join  the  jovial  throng. 

Life  is  short,  't  is  but  a  season, 

Time  is  ever  on  the  wing; 
Then  let 's  the  present  moment  seize  on, 

Who  knows  what  the  next  may  bring  ? 
All  our  time  by  mirth  we  measure. 

All  dull  cares  we  may  despise ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure. 

To  be  merry,  to  be  wise. 

Wherefore  then  should  we  perplex  us. 

Why  should  we  not  merry  be. 
Since  in  life  there  's  nought  to  vex  us. 

Drinking  sets  our  cares  all  free  ? 
Let's  have  drinking  without  measure. 

Let 's  have  wine,  while  time  we  have ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure, 

There 's  no  drinking  in  the  grave. 

When  Death  comes  in,  we  '11  say,  "  Good  fellow, 
Come  and  sit  you  down  by  me ; 


THE   SAILOR'S   CONSOLATION,  35 

Drink  with  me  until  you  're  mellow, 

Then  like  us  you  shall  be  free. 
Sit  down,  Death,  —  we  must  have  leisure, 

Drinking  can't  be  hurried  so  ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure ; 
One  more  bumper,  then  we  '11  go." 

Anonymous. 
Copied:  March  24,  1833.    Sung  by  Dr.  John  Jennison  on  the  barque  "  Lintin." 


THE   SAILOE'S   CONSOLATION. 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane, 

The  sea  was  mountains  rolling, 
When  Barney  Buntline  turned  his  quid, 

And  said  to  Billy  Bowling  : 
"  A  strong  nor' wester 's  blowing.  Bill ; 

Hark  !  don't  ye  hear  it  roar  now  ? 
Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pities  them 

Unhappy  folks  on  shore  now  I 

"  Foolhardy  chaps  who  live  in  towns, 

What  danger  they  are  all  in, 
And  now  lie  quaking  in  their  beds, 

For  fear  the  roof  shall  fall  in  ! 
Poor  creatures  !  how  they  envies  us, 

And  wishes,  I  've  a  notion. 
For  our  good  luck,  in  such  a  storm. 

To  be  upon  the  ocean  ! 

"  And  as  for  them  who  're  out  all  day 
On  business  from  their  houses, 

And  late  at  night  are  coming  home, 
To  cheer  their  babes  and  spouses. 


36  THE  FIVE  DREAMS. 

While  you  and  I,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying, 
My  eyes  !  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 

About  their  heads  are  flying ! 

"And  very  often  have  we  heard 

How  men  are  killed  and  undone, 
By  overturns  of  carriages, 

By  thieves  and  fires  in  London. 
We  know  what  risks  all  landsmen  run, 

From  noblemen  to  tailors  ; 
Then,  Bill,  let  us  thank  Providence 

That  you  and  I  are  sailors." 

William  Pitt. 
A  very  old  favorite. 

THE   FIVE  DEEAMS 

on  a  piece  of  wedding-cake  in  a  sealed  paper,  with  five 
ladies'  names  theke  written. 

FIRST. 

The  first  was  a  vision  with  flaxen  hair. 

And  such  an  ethereal  eye  and  smile. 
As  told  of  the  genius  that  harbored  there. 

And  the  art  that  in  ambush  lay  the  while  ; 
And  I  knelt  and  I  offered  —  't  was  much  for  me  — 

A  heart ;  but  she  laughed  at  the  gift,  and  said 
'T  was  kindly  meant,  but  indeed  't  would  be 

Scarce  worth  her  accepting  without  a  head. 

SECOND. 

And  the  next  was  the  very  nymph  of  dreams, 

Transparently,  beautifully  pale. 
Like  the  moon  when  she  sheds  her  mildest  beams 

Through  a  summer  cloud's  faintest,  fleeciest  veil ; 


THE  FIVE  DREAMS.  37 

And  I  knelt  again,  and  she  left  me  kneeling, 
And  with  queen-like  steps  and  averted  eyes 

She  was  gone,  ere  the  power  of  devoted  feeling    • 
Could  shape  into  words  what  it  uttered  in  sighs. 

THIRD. 

And  the  third  was  a  perfect  Hebe,  glowing 

With  all  that  life's  loveUest  morning  brings, 
And  radiant  with  happy  spirits  flowing 

From  living  and  pure  and  sheltered  springs. 
And  I  knelt  with  a  sigh  that  she  would  not  hear ; 

But  she  heard  my  petition  and  answered  no. 
And  she  laughed  at  my  sorrow  and  starting  tear, 

And  she  vanished  before  it  had  time  to  flow. 

FOURTH. 

The  fourtli !  oh,  I  know  that  large,  dark  eye, 

Those  curls  of  the  glossiest,  raven  jet ; 
I  have  worshipped  their  beauty  m  hours  gone  by. 

And  my  spirit  remembers  its  slavery  yet. 
Shall  the  secret  thoughts  of  my  heart  at  length 

Not  find  to  the  hps  their  timid  way  ? 
Too  late  and  in  vain  !  their  collected  strength 

Trembles  and  dies  in  a  faint  essay. 

FIFTH. 

But  the  last  of  the  train  is  passing  now,  — 

How  she  sways  majestically  by  ! 
There  's  moonlight  upon  her  lofty  brow, 

And  romance  in  her  visionary  eye. 
Her  thoughts  in  a  far-away  country  roam. 

All  peopled  with  fancies  divinely  fair. 
And  thither  her  spirit  is  floating  home. 

To  be  welcomed,  I  ween,  the  fairest  fair. 

Anonymous,  New  York  American. 


38  UAIL,    CHARMING  POWER! 

ADDRESS   TO   THE   BIRCH. 

BY    A    SCHOOLMASTER. 

Let  others  laud  the  storm-defymg  oak, 

Proof  'gainst  the  whirlwind  and  the  lightning  stroke. 

The  graceful  willow  or  the  aspen  tree, 

But  birch,  the  useful  stinging  birch,  for  me  ! 

A.    E.    DURIVAGE. 
Copied:  Apiil  14,  183S. 

STROKE  A   KETTLE. 

Tender-handed  stroke  a  nettle. 
And  it  stings  you  for  your  pains  ; 

Grasp  it  like  a  man  of  mettle, 
And  it  soft  as  silk  remains. 

So  it  is  with  common  natures,  — 

Use  them  kindly,  they  rebel ; 
But  be  rough  as  nutmeg  graters, 

And  the  rogues  obey  you  well. 

Aarox  Him,. 

HAIL,   CHARMING   POWER! 

Hail,  charming  power  of  self-opinion  ! 
For  none  be  slaves  in  thy  dominion  : 
Secure  in  thee,  the  mind  's  at  ease  ; 
The  vain  have  only  one  to  please. 

British  Martial. 


ODE    TO  NAPOLEOX  BOX  A  P  ARTE. 


ODE   TO   NAPOLEON   BONAPAKTE. 

'T  IS  done,  —  but  yesterday  a  king, 
And  arm'd  with  kings  to  strive  ; 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing,  — 

So  abject,  yet  alive. 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strewed  our  earth  with  hostile  bones, 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 
Since  he,  miscalled  the  morning  star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 


Thanks  for  that  lesson,  —  it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preached  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

Tliat  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  Desolator  desolate  ! 

The  Victor  overthrown ! 
The  Arljiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince,  or  live  a  slave,  — 
The  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave. 


39 


40       RECEIPT  TO  MAKE  A  MAN  OF  CONSEQUENCE. 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 

Dreamed  not  of  the  rebound  ; 
Chained  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke,  — 

Alone,  —  how  looked  he  round  ? 
Tliou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 

And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 
He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers'  prey ; 
But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 

But  thou  —  from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung,  — 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung. 
All  evil  spirit  as  thou  art. 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean. 

Byron. 
Copied:  Sunda}-,  April  28,  1833;  passing  St.  Helena. 


RECEIPT  TO  MAKE  A  MAN  OF  CONSEQUENCE. 

A  BROW  austere,  a  circumspective  eye, 
A  frequent  shrug  of  the  "  os  humeri," 
A  nod  significant,  a  stately  gait, 
A  blustering  manner  and  a  tone  of  weight, 
A  smile  sarcastic,  an  expressive  stare,  — 
Adopt  all  these  as  time  and  place  will  bear, 
Then  rest  assured  that  those  of  little  sense 
AVill  deem  you  sure  a  man  of  consequence. 

British  Martial. 


NORNA'S  PROPHECIES.  41 


NOENA'S   PROPHECIES. 

FOR    BEENDA. 

Untouched  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 
Is  like  the  snow  on  Ptona's  crest, 
High  seated  in  the  middle  sky, 
In  bright  and  barren  purity  ; 
But  by  the  sunbeam  gently  kissed. 
Scarce  by  the  gazing  eye  't  is  missed. 
Ere  down  the  lonely  valley  stealing, 
Fresh  grass  and  growth  its  course  revealing. 
It  cheers  tlie  flock,  revives  the  flower, 
And  decks  some  happy  shepherd's  bower. 

FOR    MINNA. 

Untouched  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 
Is  like  the  snow  on  Rona's  crest : 
So  pure,  so  free  from  earthly  dye. 
It  seems,  whilst  leaning  on  the  sky, 
Part  of  the  heaven  to  which  't  is  nigh  ; 
But  passion,  like  the  wild  March  rain. 
May  soil  the  wreath  with  many  a  stain. 
We  gaze,  —  the  lovely  vision  's  gone  ; 
A  torrent  fills  the  bed  of  stone. 
That,  hurrying  to  destruction's  shock. 
Leaps  headlong  from  the  lofty  rock. 

Scott,  The  Pirate. 


TO 


Lie  on,  and  my  revenge  shall  be 
To  speak  the  very  truth  of  thee. 

British  Martial. 


-t-  CUMynil   HALL. 


CUMNOK   HALL. 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall ; 

The  moon,  sweet  regent  of  the  sky, 
Silvered  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 

And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies. 
The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still. 

Save  an  unhappy  lady's  sighs, 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

"  Leicester,"  she  cried,  "  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me,  — 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 
Inmiured  in  shameful  privity  ? 

"  No  more  thou  com'st  with  lover's  speed. 
Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see ; 

But  be  she  alive  or  be  she  dead, 

I  fear,  stern  Earl,  's  the  same  to  thee. 

"  Not  so  the  usage  I  received 

When  happy  in  my  father's  hall ; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved. 
No  chilling  fears  did  me  appall. 


"  Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I  plead 
(Tlie  injured  surely  may  repine). 

Why  didst  thou  wed  a  country  maid, 

When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine  ? 


CUMNOll   HALL.  43 

"  Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble  charms, 

And,  oh,  then  leave  them  to  decay  ? 
Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms. 

Then  leave  to  mourn  the  livelong  day  ? 

"  The  village  maidens  of  the  plahi 

Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go  ; 
Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 

Nor  think  a  Countess  can  have  woe. 

"  The  simple  nymphs,  they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy  's  then-  estate,  — 

To  smile  for  joy  than  sigh  for  woe. 
To  be  content  than  to  be  u'reat. 


"  My  spirits  flag,  my  hopes  decay  ; 

Still  that  dread  death-bell  smites  my  ear. 
And  many  a  boding  seems  to  say, 

'  Countess,  prepare,  thy  end  is  near.' " 

Thus,  sore  and  sad,  that  lady  grieved, 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear ; 

And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 
And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared. 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring. 
An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapped  its  wings 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 


44  CUMNOR   HALL. 

The  mastiff  howled  at  village  door, 
The  oaks  were  shattered  on  the  green ; 

Woe  was  the  hour,  for  nevermore 
That  hapless  Countess  e'er  was  seen. 

And  in  tliat  manor  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  and  sprightly  Lall ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 
Have  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  village  maids,  with  fearful  glance. 
Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall ; 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merry  dance 

Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Full  many  a  traveller  oft  hath  sighed. 
And  pensive  wept  the  Countess'  fall. 
As  wandering  onward  they  've  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

William  Julius  Mickle. 
Copied  :   MiLTON  HiLL,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


OX  A  STONE  THKOWN  THAT  MISSED  A  THICK  HEAD. 

Talk  no  more  of  the  lucky  escape  of  the  head 

From  a  flint  so  unluckily  thrown  ; 
I  think,  very  different  from  thousands  indeed, 

'T  was  a  lucky  escape  for  the  stone. 

Peter  Pixuak. 


ANNE  HATHAWAY.  45 


ANNE   HATHAWAY. 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Anne  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phoebus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear  ; 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  way. 
She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  breathe  delight,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

When  envy's  breath  and  rancor's  tooth 

Do  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray. 

To  soothe  the  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day, 

Thou  knowest,  fond  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway  ; 

To  make  grief  bliss,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  Orient  list, 
The  diamond,  tojjaz,  amethyst, 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay  — 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Anne  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye. 
Their  various  lustre  to  defy  ; 
The  jewel  she,  and  the  foil  they. 
So  sweet  to  look  Anne  hath  a  way. 


46  JEAN  IE   MORRISON. 

She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway  ; 

To  shame  bright  gems,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

But  were  it  to  my  fancy  given 

To  rate  her  charms,  I  'd  call  them  heaven ; 

For  though  a  mortal  made  of  clay, 

Angels  must  love  Anne  Hathaway. 

She  hath  a  w^ay  so  to  control, 

To  rapture,  the  imprisoned  soul, 

And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 

That  to  be  heaven  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway ; 

To  be  heaven's  self,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Attributed  to  Shakspeare. 
Copied  :  Milton  Hill,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


JEANIE   MOEEISOK 

I  'VE  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

Through  mony  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 
The  fire  that 's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule  ; 
But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadow\s  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears ; 


JEAN  IE  MORRISON.  47 

They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

'T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time,  sad  time !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink. 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Eemembered  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet. 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  bulk  on  our  knee. 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn. 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Momson, 
Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek, 


48  JEANIE  MORRISON. 

Like  dew-Leads  on  a  rose,  yet  nana 

Had  ony  power  to  speak. 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  unsung. 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west, 

I  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins. 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young, 

1  've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness. 

And  happy  could  I  dee. 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 
0'  bygane  days  and  me. 

William  Motherwell. 
Copied :  Milton  Hill,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


WONDERS   CEASE. 

The  prophet  Balaam  was  in  wonder  lost 

To  have  his  ass  speak  ;  —  asses  now  talk  most. 

Akoxymous. 


JJAV  BliEAKS   ON   THE  MOUNTAIN.  49 


DAY   BEEAKS   ON   THE   MOUNTAIN. 

Day  breaks  on  the  mountain, 

Light  bursts  on  the  storm, 
The  sun  from  the  shower 

Glints  silent  and  warm. 
But  dark  is  the  hour 

Of  grief  on  my  soul ; 
There  's  no  morn  to  awake  it, 

No  beam  to  console. 

The  hawk  to  his  corrie, 
The  dove  to  her  nest, 
The  wolf  to  the  greenwood, 

The  fox  to  his  rest. 
But  woe  and  morrow 

Are  wakeful  to  me ; 
There 's  no  rest  for  my  sorrow. 

No  sleep  for  my  ee. 

O  Lily  of  England, 

0  lady,  my  love. 
How  fair  is  the  sunbeam, 

Thy  bower  above ! 
And  bright  be  thy  blossom, 

And  reckless  thy  glee, 
And  crossed  not  thy  bosom 

With  sorrow  for  me. 

We  have  met  in  delight, 

We  have  dreamed  ne'er  to  sever, 
4 


CLEVELAND'S  SONG   TO  MINNA. 

We  have  loved  in  despair, 
We  have  parted  forever. 
But  yet  there's  a  rest 

To  the  mournful  is  given ; 
We  shall  sleep  on  earth's  breast, 
And  awaken  in  heaven. 

Anonymous,  Bridal  of  Colchairn. 
Copied  :  MiLTON,  Oct.  31,  1833,  from  E.  P.  F.'s  Log-book. 


CLEVELAND'S   SONG   TO   MINNA. 

Farewell  !  farewell !  the  voice  you  hear, 
Has  left  its  last  soft  tone  with  you ; 

Its  next  must  join  the  seaward  cheer, 
And  shout  among  the  shouting  crew. 

The  accents  which  I  scarce  could  form 
Beneath  your  frown's  controllmg  check, 

Must  give  the  word,  above  the  storm. 
To  cut  the  mast,  and  clear  the  wreck. 

The  timid  eye  I  dared  not  raise. 

The  hand,  that  shook  when  pressed  to  thine. 
Must  point  the  guns  upon  the  chase  — 

Must  bid  the  deadly  cutlass  shine. 

To  all  I  love,  or  hope  —  or  fear. 

Honour  or  own,  a  long  adieu  ! 
To  all  that  life  has  soft  and  dear. 

Farewell !  save  memory  of  you  ! 

Scott,  TJie  Pirate. 
Copied:  Milton,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


THE  BRAES   OF  BALQUITHER.  51 


THE   BRAES   OF   BALQUITHER. 

Lf:T  us  gae,  lassie,  gae 

To  the  braes  of  Balquither, 
Where  the  blae  berries  grow 

'Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather ; 
Wliere  the  deer  and  the  rae, 
Lightly  bounding  together, 
Sport  the  lang  summer  day 
'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquither. 
Will  ye  go,  lassie,  go 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquither, 
Where  the  blae  berries  "row 

'Mang  the  bonnie  bloomin'  heather  ? 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 

By  the  clear  siller  fountain. 
And  I  '11  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flow'rs  o'  the  mountain  ; 
I  will  range  through  the  wilds, 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  dreary, 
And  return  wi'  the  spoils 

To  the  l)ower  o'  my  dearie. 
Will  ye  go,  &c. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win' 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 
And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling  ; 
Sae  merrily  we  '11  sing 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  us. 
Till  the  deer  shieling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 
Will  ye  go,  &c. 


52  FILL    THE   GOBLET  AGAIN. 

Now  the  suniiner  is  in  prime 

Wi'  the  flow'rs  riclily  blooming. 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming  ; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 
Let  us  journey  together, 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns, 
'Mang  the  braes  of  Balquither. 
Will  ye  go,  lassie,  go 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquither, 
Where  the  blae  berries  grow 

'Mang  the  bonnie  bloomm'  heather  ? 

Tannahill. 
Copied  :  Oct.  31,  1833.     Sung  at  Naushon, 


FILL   THE   GOBLET   AGAIN. 

Fill  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core  : 

Let  us  drink  !  —  who  would  not  ?  —  since,  through  life's  varied 

round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply : 

I  have  basked  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye ; 

T  have  loved  !  —  who  has  not  ?  —  but  what  heart  can  declare 

That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart 's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends  !  —  who  has  not?  —  but  what  tongue  will  avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine !  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 


FILL    THE   GOBLET  AGAIN.  53 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange, 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam, —  thou  never  canst  change : 
Thou  grow'st  old, —  who  does  not  ?  —  but  on  earth  what  appears. 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  ? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow. 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below. 
We  are  jealous !  —  who 's  not  ?  —  thou  hast  no  such  alloy  ; 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last : 
There  we  find, —  do  we  not  ?  —  in  the  flow  of  the  soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 


Long  life  to  the  grape !  for  when  summer  is  flown. 

The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own : 

We  must  die  —  who  shall  not?  —  May  our  sins  be  forgiven, 

And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 

Byron. 

Copied  in  5°  N.,  20°  W. ;  thermometer,  85°;  calm;  dead-ahead;  "  Logan." 


CLEAE-SIGHTED,    YET   BLIND. 

His  own  merits  perceiving,  sure  S through  the  land 

For  acute  penetration  unrivalled  would  stand, 

Were  it  not  this  one  blemish  pre-eminence  smothers,  — 

He  is  totally  blind  to  the  merits  of  others. 

Anonymous. 


54  DEATH  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUNG  GIRL. 


DEATH   OF   MAJOE   HOWARD. 

Their  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along. 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gallant  Howard 

Byron,  Childe  Harold. 
Copied  at  sea  48°  S.,  24°  W.  ;  "  Logan." 


OX   THE  DEATH   OF   A   BEAUTIFUL   YOUXG   GIRL. 

'T  IS  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  when  hope  has  built  a  bower, 
Like  that  of  Eden,  wreathed  about  with  every  thornless  flower, 
To  dwell  therein  securely,  the  self-deceivers  trust, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  'desert  comes,  and  "  all  is  in  the  dust.'' 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  that  when  the  poor  heart  clings 
With  all  its  finest  tendrils,  with  all  its  flexile  rings. 
That  goodly  thing  it  cleaveth  to,  so  fondly  and  so  fast. 
Is  struck  to  earth  by  lightning,  or  shattered  by  the  blast. 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  beams  of  mortal  bliss. 
With  looks  too  bright  and  beautiful  for  such  a  world  as  this : 
One  moment  round  about  us  their  angel  lightnings  play  ; 
Then  down  the  veil  of  darkness  drops,  and  all  has  passed  away. 


ON  ENGLISH   TRAVELLERS.  55 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  sounds  too  sweet  for  earth,  — 
Seraphic  sounds,  that  float  away,  borne  heavenward  in  their  birth : 
The  goklen  shell  is  broken,  the  silver  chord  is  mute ; 
The  sweet  bells  are  all  silent,  and  hushed  the  lovely  lute. 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  all  that 's  best  below  : 
The  dearest,  noblest,  loveliest,  are  always  first  to  go,  — 
The  bird  that  sings  the  sweetest ;  the  vine  that  crowns  the  rock, 
The  glory  of  the  garden  ;  "  the  flower  of  the  flock." 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  creatures  heavenly  fair. 

Too  finely  framed  to  bide  the  brunt  more  earthly  natures  bear ; 

A  little  while  they  dwell  with  us,  blessed  ministers  of  love, 

Then  spread  the  wings  we  had  not  seen,  and  seek  their  home 

above. 

Anonymous,  Connecticut  Mirror. 

Copied  :  June  1",  1S34,  "  Logan,"  off  Cape  ;  gale  of  wind  and  rolling  sea. 


ON   ENGLISH   TRAVELLEES. 

On  knottiest  points  with  ease  debate. 
Without  one  just  thought  on  the  matter  ; 

With  scarce  the  traveller's  art  to  gaze. 
You  ape  the  sages  to  distinguish ; 

And  while  dear  England's  laws  you  praise, 
You  quite  forget  the  law^s  of  English. 

Even  now,  while  freedom  through  the  lands 
Sweeps  gathering  on,  behold  in  all 

His  might  on  Murray's  counter  stands 
And  fires  his  popgun  —  Captain  Hall ! 

'T  is  said  when  famed  Alcides  slew 
The  Earth's  dread,  that  slumber  bound  him. 

The  hero  woke,  attacked  anew, 


56 


ONE   STILL   LINGERED. 


And  found  the  tribe  of  pygmies  round  him. 

So  truth  some  mighty  victory  gains, 
And,  lo  !  the  dwarfs  rush  out  to  seize  him  ! 

The  giant  crushed,  there  still  remains. 
Some  tribe  of  Hall's  that  can  but  tease  him. 

But  from  the  traveller  now  we  turn 
One  moment  to  address  the  reader. 

BuLWER,  The  Twins. 


THE   GEAVE. 

The  grave  is  but  a  calmer  bed, 

Where  mortals  sleej)  a  longer  sleep,  —  - 
,A  shelter  for  the  houseless  head, 

A  spot  where  wretches  cease  to  weep. 

Anonymous,  BlackwoocVs  Magazine. 
Copied  :  Jan  29,  1835. 


ONE   STILL  LINGEEED. 


One  still  lingered,  pale  and  last, 
By  the  lonely  gallery  stair. 

As  if  his  soul  had  passed. 

Vanished  with  some  stately  fair. 


Who  the  Knight,  to  few  was  known ; 
Who  his  Love,  he  ne'er  would  tell  ; 
But  his  eyes  were  — like  thine  own, 
But  his  heart  was  —  Oh,  farewell  ! 

ANONyMOUS,  BlachwoocV s  Magadne. 
Copied  in  China,  Jan.  29,  1835. 


BEFORE  JEHOVAH'S  AWFUL    THRONE.  i)l 


BEFOEE  JEHOVAH'S  AWFUL  THEONE. 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne, 

Ye  nations,  bow  with  sacred  joy. 
Know  that  the  Lord  is  God  alone ; 

He  can  create,  and  he  destroy. 

His  sovereign  power,  without  our  aid, 
Made  us  of  clay,  and  formed  us  men ; 

And  when  like  wandering  sheep  we  strayed. 
He  brought  us  to  his  fold  again. 

We  '11  crowd  thy  gates  with  thankful  songs, 
Higli  as  the  heavens  our  voices  raise  ; 

And  earth,  with  her  ten  thousand  tongues, 
Shall  fill  thy  courts  with  sounding  praise. 

Wide  as  the  world  is  thy  command ; 

Vast  as  eternity  thy  love ; 
Firm  as  a  rock  thy  truth  shall  stand. 

When  rolling  years  shall  cease  to  move. 

Watts. 
Copied  in  Ciiin'A,  1835. 


HOPE. 

Cease  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mind, 

But  leave,  oh,  leave  the  light  of  hope  behind ; 

What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been 

Like  angel's  visits,  few  and  far  between, 

Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease. 

And  charm  when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please. 

Campbell,  Pleasures  of  Hope. 
Copied  :  Canton,  Jan.  1,  1836. 


58  LOVE  NOT. 


LOVE   NOT! 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 

Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly  flowers,  — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 

Ere  they  have  blossomed  for  a  few  short  hours. 

Love  not ' 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change ! 

The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you ; 
The  kindly  beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange ; 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not  I 

Love  not !  the  thing  you  love  may  die. 

May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky. 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  oh,  warning  vainly  said 

In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by  : 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head, 
Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 

Love  not ! 

Carolixe  Norton. 


THE   BEAGGART. 

John  puiTs  himself  ;  forbear  to  chide  : 

An  insect  vile  and  mean 

Must,  well  he  knows,  be  magnified 

Before  it  can  be  seen. 

AxoNYMors. 


THE  BELL  AT  SEA.  59 


COUNTY   GUY. 

Ah,  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea ; 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

Tiie  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day. 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour ; 

But  where  is  Covuity  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  cavalier. 
The  star  of  love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky. 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know ; 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

Scott,  Quentin  Durward. 
Copied:  Macao,  July  15,  1836. 


THE   BELL  AT   SEA. 

When  the  tide's  billowy  swell 

Had  reached  its  height, 
Then  pealed  the  rock's  lone  bell 

Slowly  by  night. 
Ear  over  cliflf  and  surge 

Swept  the  deep  sound ; 
Making  each  wild  wind's  dirge 

Still  more  profound. 


60  WOOING-TIME. 

Yet  that  funereal  tone 

The  sailor  blest, 
Steering  through  darkness  on 

With  fearless  breast. 
E'en  thus  may  we  that  11  oat 

On  life's  wide  sea, 
Welcome  each  warning  note, 

Stern  though  it  be. 

Hemans. 

Copied  from  Mrs.  Gordon's  Music-book :  Macao,  July  21,  1836. 


WOOING-TIME. 

Woo  her  when  with  rosy  blush 

Summer  eve  is  sinking, 
When  on  rills  that  softly  gush 

Stars  are  softly  winking, 
When  throu'di  boughs  that  knit  the  bower 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealmg ; 
Woo  her  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wakes  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her  when  the  north  wind  calls 

At  the  lattice  nightly, 
When  within  the  cheerful  hall 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly. 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary. 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 

Bryaxt. 


ISLE   OF  BEAUTY.  61 


HOW   GAILY   EOWS   THE   GONDOLIER. 

How  gaily  rows  the  gondolier, 
When  love  and  hope  his  light  bark  steer ! 
Cheerily  the  southern  breeze  he  braves, 
And  boldly  stems  the  swelling  waves. 

The  gondolier,  how  light  he  rows 
Wlien  not  a  star  its  radiance  throws  ! 
'T  is  time  his  swift  bark  on  to  urge 
Across  the  gently  flowing  surge. 

Anonymous. 


ISLE   OF   BEAUTY. 

Shades  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile ; 
Morn,  alas  !  will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle. 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell ; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover  : 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well, 

'T  is  the  hour  when  happy  faces 
Smile  around  the  taper's  light ; 

Wlio  will  fill  our  vacant  places. 
Who  will  sing  our  soncrs  to-nioht  ? 


62  TllK    LIGHT  ILMIK. 

Through  the  mist  that  lioats  above  us 
Faintly  sounds  the  vesper  bell, 

Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  us, 
Breathing  fondly,  Fare  thee  well ! 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seeking 

Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon, 
What  would  I  not  give  to  wander 

Where  my  old  companions  dwell  ? 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder : 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 


T.  H.  Bayly. 


THE   LIGHT   BAEK. 

"Off,"  said  the  stranger,  "off,  off,  and  away !" 
And  away  flew  the  light  bark  o'er  the  silvery  bay. 
"  We  must  reach  ere  to-morrow  the  far  distant  wave  ; 
The  billows  we'll  laugh  at,  the  tempest  we'll  brave." 

The  young  roving  lovers,  their  vows  have  been  given ; 
Unsmiled  on  by  mortals,  but  hallowed  in  heaven : 
She  was  Italy's  daughter,  I  knew  by  her  eye  ; 
It  wore  the  bright  beam  that  illumines  her  sky. 

And  she  has  forsaken  her  palace  and  halls 
For  the  chill  breeze  and  the  light  which  falls 
O'er  the  pure  wave  from  the  heavens  above  ; 
And  their  guiding  star  was  the  bright  star  of  love. 

Anonymous. 


GONDOLA.  63 


GONDOLA. 


What  fairy-like  music 

Steals  over  the  sea, 
Entrancing  our  senses 

With  charmed  melody ! 
'T  is  the  voice  of  the  mermaid, 

That  floats  o'er  the  main, 
As  she  mingles  her  song 

With  the  gondolier's  strain. 

The  winds  are  all  hushed, 

And  the  water 's  at  rest ; 
They  sleep  like  the  passions 

In  infancy's  breast ! 
Till  the  storms  shall  unchain  them 

From  out  their  dark  cave. 
And  break  the  repose 

Of  the  soul  and  the  wave. 

Mrs.  C.  B.  Wilson. 
Copied:  Macao,  Ju%  21,  1836.     Mrs.  Long's  song. 


MORTAL. 

Can  any  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
For  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  knew  till  now. 

Milton,  Comus. 


64  LINES   TO  A   LADY 


LINES   TO   A   LADY. 

The  leaf  floats  by  upon  the  stream, 

L^n heeded  in  its  silent  path  ; 
The  vision  of  the  shadowy  dream 

A  similar  remembrance  hath. 

The  cloud  that  floats  across  the  moon 
Scarce  brightens  ere  its  hues  are  gone  ; 

The  mist  that  shrouds  the  lake,  as  soon 
Must  vanish  as  the  night  hath  flown. 

The  dove  hath  cleft  the  pure  blue  sky ; 

No  traces  of  his  wing  are  there. 
The  light  hath  dwelt  in  beauty's  eye  ; 

It  was  but  now  —  and  now  is,  where? 

The  winds  of  night  have  passed  the  flower ; 

Hath  morning  found  its  gay  leaf  dim  ? 
The  bird  hath  sung  by  lady's  bower ; 

To-morrow  will  she  tliink  of  him  ? 

But  still  the  cloud  may  not  forget 
The  moon's  serene  but  parting  light ; 

The  bird,  the  leaf,  remember  yet 

One  that  hath  made  their  pathway  bright. 

And  I,  though  cold  neglect  be  mine. 
My  name  to  deep  oblivion  given, 

Will,  while  on  earth,  remember  thine. 
And  breathe  it  to  my  lyre  in  heaven. 

N.  P.  Willis. 

Copied:  Albion,  July  22,  1836. 


BRIDAL   SERENADE.  65 


BEIDAL   SERENADE. 

Wilt  thou  not  waken,  Bride  of  May, 
While  flowers  are  fresh  and  the  sweet  bells  chime  ? 
Listen  and  learn  from  my  roundelay 
How  all  life's  pilot-boats  sailed  one  day 
A  match  with  Time. 

Love  sat  on  a  lotus  leaf  afloat. 
And  saw  old  Time  in  his  loaded  boat ; 
Slowly  he  crossed  life's  narrow  tide, 
While  Love  sat  clapping  his  wings  and  cried, 
"  Who  will  pass  Time  ? " 

Patience  came  first,  but  soon  was  gone 
With  helm  and  sail  to  help  Time  on  ; 
Care  and  Grief  could  not  lend  an  oar, 
And  Prudence  said,  while  he  stayed  on  shore, 
"  I  '11  wait  for  Time." 

Hope  filled  with  flowers  her  amaranth  bark, 
And  lighted  its  helm  with  a  glowworm's  spark ; 
Then  Love,  when  he  saw  her  bark  fly  fast. 
Said,  "  Lingering  Time  will  soon  be  past ; 
Hope  outspeeds  Time." 

Wit  went  nearest  old  Time  to  pass, 
With  his  diamond  oar,  and  his  boat  of  glass ; 
A  feathery  dart  from  his  store  he  drew. 
And  shouted,  while  far  and  swift  it  flew, 
"  Oh,  Mirth  kills  Time." 


06  THE   MOURNER. 

But  Time  sent  the  feathery  arrows  back, 
Hope's  boat  of  amaranths  missed  the  track  ; 
Then  Love  bade  his  butterfly  pilots  move, 
And  laughingly  said,  "  They  shall  see  liow  Love 
Can  conquer  Time." 

His  gossamer  sails  he  spread  with  speed  ; 
But  Time  has  wings  when  Time  has  need. 
Swiftly  he  crossed  Life's  sparkling  tide, 
And  only  Memory  stayed  to  chide, 
Unpitying  Time  ! 

Wake  and  listen,  thou  Bride  of  May  ! 
Listen  and  heed  thy  minstrel's  rhyme. 
Still  for  thee  some  bright  hours  stay ; 
For  it  was  a  hand  like  thine,  they  say, 


Gave  wings  to  Time. 


Anonymous. 


THE  MOURNEE. 

She  flung  her  white  arms  around  him.     "  Thou  art  all 

That  this  poor  heart  can  cling  to  ;  yet  I  feel 

That  I  am  rich  in  blessings,  and  the  fear 

Of  this  most  bitter  moment  still  is  mingled 

With  a  strange  joy.     Eeposing  on  thy  heart, 

I  hear  the  blasts  of  fortune  sweeping  by, 

As  a  babe  lists  to  music,  —  wondering, 

But  not  affrighted.     In  the  darkest  hour 

Thy  smile  is  brightest ;  and  when  I  am  wretched, 

Then  am  I  most  beloved.     In  hours  like  this 

The  soul's  resources  rise,  and  all  its  strength 


THE  HOUR    OF  DEATH.  67 

Bounds  into  being !     I  would  rather  live 
With  all  my  faculties  thus  wakened  round  me, 
Of  hopes  and  fears  and  joys  and  sympathies, 
A  few  short  moments,  even  with  every  feeling 
Smarting  from  Fate's  deep  lash,  tlian  a  long  age, 
However  calm  and  free  from  turbulence. 
Bereft  of  these  most  high  capacities. 
Not  vainly  have  I  nursed  them  :  for  there  is 
An  impulse  even  in  suffering,  and  so  pure 
Eise  the  eternal  hopes,  called  by  them  anguish, 
Of  a  world-wearied  spirit." 

Miss  Roscoe,  of  Liverpool. 
Copied  :  Macao,  July  22,  1836. 


THE  HOUE   OF   DEATH. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath,     • 

And  stars  to  set,  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  O  Death  !  • 

Day  is  for  mortal  care. 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer, 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth ! 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth  and  song  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  of  grief's  o'erwhelming  power, - 
A  time  for  softer  tears,  —  but  all  are  thine. 


68  THE   HOUR    OF  DEATH. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  hke  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee,  —  but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall. 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  brcatli, 

And  stars  to  set,  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane. 
When  summer  birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hues  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain,  — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ?  — 
They  have  one  season,  —  all  are  ours  to  die ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam. 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home ; 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth,  —  and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend. 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest,  — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath. 

And  stars  to  set,  —  but  all, 
Tliou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death ! 

Mrs.  Hemans. 
Copied  :  China,  July  22,  1836. 


ALNWICK  CASTLE.  69 

ALNWICK   CASTLK 

EXTRACTS. 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile ; 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seem  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 
One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border-story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch  ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum  ; 
And  babe  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hynni  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom ; 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  m  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath, 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine. 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 


70  ALNWICK   CASTLE. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  thei-e  be  "  tongues  in  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here, — 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer. 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell,  — 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 


And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 

Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 

Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Eothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Eichard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  ]\Ioslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on. 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek. 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 
And  not  a  sabre  blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven. 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry. 

You  '11  ask  if  yet  the  Percy  lives 
In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state. 


IinW   STANDS    THE   GLASS  AROUND^  71 

The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate" 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy ; 

And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal. 

Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 

From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 

For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 

Halleck. 


HOW  STANDS   THE   GLASS   AROUND? 

SAID    TO    HAVK    BEE:N^    SUXG    BY    GEXERAL    WOLFE    THE    EVEXING 
BEFORE    HE    WAS    KILLED    AT    QUEBEC. 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 
For  shame,  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys  ! 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound. 
The  trumpets  sound. 
The  colors  they  are  flying,  boys, — 

To  fight,  kill,  or  wound  : 

May  we  still  be  found 
Content  with  our  hard  fate,  my  boys, 
On  the  cold  gi'ound ! 

Why,  soldiers,  wliy 

Should  we  be  melancholy,  boys  ? 

Wliy,  soldiers,  why. 

Whose  business  't  is  to  die  ? 

What !  sighing  ?  fie ! 


72  TO   THE   DIM  AND   GLOOMY  SHORE. 

Don't  fear :  drink  on  :  be  jolly,  boys  ! 

'T  is  he,  you,  or  I ! 

Cold,  hot,  wet,  or  dry, 
We  're  always  bound  to  follow^,  boys, 
And  scorn  to  fly  ! 

'T  is  but  in  vain, — 
I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys, — 
'Tis  but  in  vain 
For  soldiers  to  complain  : 
Should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  Him  who  made  us,  boys 
We  're  free  from  pain ; 
But  if  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  a  kind  landlady 
Cure  all  again. 

Anonymous,  Old  Song. 
Copied:  Oct.  9,  1836. 


TO   THE   DIM   AND   GLOOMY   SHOEE. 

To  the  dim  and  gloomy  shore 
Thou  art  gone  some  steps  before ; 
But  thither  the  swift  hours  lead  us  ! 
If  Love  may  in  life  be  brief. 

In  death  it  is  fixed  forever ! 
In  the  hall  which  our  feasts  illume, 
The  flower  for  an  hour  may  bloom ; 
But  the  cypress  that  decks  the  tomb, 

The  cypress,  is  green  forever. 

BULWER. 
Sent  me  by  Madge.     Copied :  Sunday,  Oct.  9,  1836. 


THE   CATHEDRAL.  73 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 

How  loud  amid  these  silent  aisles 

My  quiet  footstep  falls, 
Where  words,  like  ancient  chronicles. 

Are  scattered  on  the  walls. 
A  thousand  phantoms  seem  to  rise 

Beneath  my  lightest  tread, 
And  echoes  bring  me  back  replies 

From  homes  that  hold  the  dead. 
The  loftiest  passions  and  the  least 

Lie  sleeping  side  by  side, 
And  love  hath  reared  its  staff  of  rest 

Beside  the  grave  of  pride. 

Alike  o'er  each,  alike  o'er  all, 

Their  lone  memorials  wave  ; 
The  banner  on  the  sculptured  wall, 

The  thistle  o'er  the  grave, 
Each,  herald-like,  proclaims  the  style 

And  bearings  of  the  dead. 
But  hangs  one  moral  all  the  while 

Above  each  slumbering  head. 

And  the  breeze,  like  an  ancient  bard,  comes  by, 

And  touches  the  solemn  chords 
Of  the  harp  which  death  has  hung  on  high ; 

And  fancy  weaves  the  words,  — 
Songs  that  have  one  unwearied  tone. 

Though  they  sing  of  many  an  age. 
And  tales  to  which  each  graven  stone 

Is  but  a  titlepage  ! 


74  TO  MY   YACHT. 

The  warrior  here  hath  sheathed  his  sword, 

Tlie  poet  crushed  his  lyre, 
The  miser  left  his  counted  hoard, 

The  chemist  quenched  his  fire. 
The  maiden  nevermore  steals  forth 

To  hear  her  lover's  lute, 
And  all  the  trumpets  of  the  earth 

In  the  soldier's  ear  are  mute. 

The  moonlight  sits,  with  her  sad,  sweet  smile, 

O'er  the  heedless  painter's  rest. 
And  the  organ  rings  through  the  vaulted  aisle, 

But  it  stirs  not  the  minstrel's  breast. 
The  mariner  has  no  wish  to  roam 

From  his  safe  and  silent  shore, 
And  the  weeping  in  the  mourner's  home 

Is  hushed  forevermore ! 

Anonymous. 


TO   MY   YACHT. 

Away,  o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking. 
Bark  of  my  hope,  ere  the  evening  be  gone ! 

There  's  a  wild,  wild  note  in  the  curlew's  shrieking ; 
There  's  a  whisper  of  death  in  the  wind's  low  moan. 

Though  blue  and  bright  are  the  heavens  above  me, 
And  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  quiet  sea. 

And  hearts  I  love,  and  hearts  that  love  me, 
Are  beating  beside  me  merrily. 

Yet  far  in  the  west,  where  the  day's  faded  roses, 
Touched  by  the  moonbeam,  are  withering  fast,  — 

Where  the  half-seen  spirit  of  twilight  reposes. 
Hymning  the  dirge  of  the  hours  that  are  past, — 


THE   WINSOME    WEE    THING.  75 

There,  where  the  ocean  wave  sparkles  at  meeting 
(As  sunset  dreams  tell  us)  the  kiss  of  the  sky, 

On  his  dim,  dark  cloud  is  the  infant  storm  sitting, 
And  beneath  the  horizon  his  lightnings  are  nigh. 

Another  hour,  and  the  death- word  is  given,  — 

Another  hour,  and  his  lightnings  are  here  ; 
Speed,  speed  thee,  my  bark,  ere  the  breeze  of  even 

Is  lost  in  the  tempest,  our  home  will  be  near. 

Then  away  o'er  the  wave,  while  thy  pennant  is  streaming 

In  shadowy  light,  like  a  shooting  star ; 
Be  swift  as  the  thought  of  the  wanderer,  dreaming. 

In  a  stranger  land,  of  his  fireside  afar. 

And  wliile  memory  lingers  I  '11  fondly  believe  thee 

A  being  with  life  and  its  best  feelings  warm. 
And  freely  the  wild  song  of  gratitude  weave  thee. 
Blessed  spirit,  that  bore  me  and  mine  from  the  storm. 

Halleck,  Fanny. 
Macao,  Feb.  22,  1836.     Copied:  Cantox,  Oct.  9,  1S36. 


THE  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  lo'esome  wee  thing, 
This  dear  wee  wife  o'  mine ! 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer ; 
And  neist  my  heart  I  'II  wear  her. 
For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 


76  AH,   Mil.  B. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  lo'esome  wee  thing. 
This  clear  wee  wife  o'  mine ! 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 
Wi'  her  I  '11  blithely  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divme. 

Copied  on  board  ship  "  Lucouia,"  at  sea,  Jan.  1,  1837. 


BuRXS. 


AH,   ME.   B. 

Air  :  "County  Guy." 
(  Written  on  Mr.  Tom  BcaVs  keeinng  a  large  party  tvaiting  at  Vachills,  June,  1831.) 

Ah,  Mr.  B.,  't  is  half -past  three  : 

The  soup  has  left  the  fire. 
The  salmon  fish  perfumes  the  dish  ; 

We  all  begin  to  tire. 
The  soles  in  state  thy  coming  wait, 

And  fragrant  lies  the  eel ; 
Fish,  soup,  and  plate  confess  'tis  late, 

But  where  is  Monsieur  Beal  ? 

A  half-hour 's  sped,  —  he  's  surely  dead. 

Or  else  he  'd  send  a  chit ; 
I  '11  bet  you  two  to  one  he  's  had 

An  apoplectic  fit. 

(lost!) 

What  bell  rings  at  the  gate  ? 
"  His  ghost,  his  ghost ! "  loud  cries  our  host ; 

'T  is  Monsieur  Beal,  though  late. 

AxOXYilOUS. 
Copied  :  Jan.  1,  1837. 


MY  TENT  ON  SHORE,  MY  GALLEY  ON  THE  SEA.       77 


HE   THAT   HATH   SAILED. 


He  that  hath  sailed  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  viewed  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight. 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be. 
The  white  sails  set,  the  gallant  vessel  light. 
Masts,  spars,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right. 
The  glorious  main  expanding  on  the  bow. 

Byron,  GJiilde  Harold. 
Copied  during  a  vexatious  calm,  a  contrast  to  the  above,  on  board  ship  "  Luco- 
nia,"  Jan.  1,  1837. 


MY  TENT   ON   SHOEE,   MY  GALLEY  ON   THE   SEA. 


So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  men  ne'er  knew  ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 

Ay  !  let  me,  like  the  ocean  patriarch,  roam, 

Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home  ! 

My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea. 

Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me. 

Borne  by  my  steed  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 

Across  the  desert  or  before  the  gale, 

Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb !  or  glide,  my  prow 

But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer.  Thou  ! 

Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark ; 

The  dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  ! 


ADDRESS    TO  MY  WASIIERWOMAy. 

Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainl)o\v  to  the  storms  of  life  ; 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  ! 

How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still ! 
Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown  ; 
To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own,  — 
To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 
Blend  every  thought,  do  all,  —  but  disunite. 

Byron,  Tlie  Bride  of  Abydos. 
Copied  :  Jan.  1,  1837. 


ADDEESS   TO   MY   WASHEEWOMAN 

ON    MISSING   SOME   FINE    SHIKTS. 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare 
All  my  nice  plaited  shirts  vanished  like  air  ? 

To  thy  new  master  hie. 

On  him  the  same  trick  try  ; 

Then  ask  thy  pocket  vfhy 

No  cash  is  there. 

Akoxymous.. 

EXTEACT. 

We  believe  that  fate  is  less  capricious  than  is  imagined ;  that 
nearly  all  men  (though  this  is  a  singular  assertion)  have  through 
life,  in  their  several  grades,  the  same  average  of  opportunities. 
It  is  he  who  can  seize  and  connect  them,  and  by  keen  sight  and 
ready  experience  calculate  on  their  re-occurrence,  for  whom  men 
have  their  applause  and  Fortune  her  garland. 

BuLWER,  Disoifiied, 


THE  LAST   JOURNEY.  79 


THE   LAST   JOURNEY. 

Tlie  custom  of  an  Egyptian  funeral  procession  is  to  pause  before  the  door  of 
certain  houses,  sonietiuics  receding  a  few  stejjs  for  the  dead  to  bid  a  last  farewell 
to  their  friends  and  to  effect  a  reconciliation  with  their  enemies. 

Slowly  with  measured  tread 
Onward  we  bear  the  dead 

To  his  lone  home. 
Short  grows  the  homeward  road ; 
On  with  your  mortal  load, 

0  grave,  we  come ! 

Yet,  yet,  ah  !  hasten  not 
Past  each  remembered  spot 

Where  he  had  been  ; 
Where  late  he  walked  in  glee, 
There  from  henceforth  to  be 

Nevermore  seen. 

Eest  ye,  set  down  the  bier  ; 
One  he  loved  dwelleth  here : 

Let  the  dead  lie 
A  moment  that  door  beside. 
Wont  to  fly  open  wide, 

Ere  he  drew  nigh. 

Hearken  !  he  speaketh  yet : 
"  0  friend,  wilt  thou  forget 

(Friend  more  than  Ijrother) 
How  hand  in  hand  we  've  gone, 
Heart  with  heart  linked  in  one, 

All  to  each  other  ? 


80  THE  LAST  JOURNEY. 

"  0  friend,  I  go  from  thee,  — 
Where  the  worm  feasteth  free, 

Darkly  to  dwell ; 
Giv'st  thou  no  parting  kiss  ? 
Friend  !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

0  friend,  farewell ! " 

Uplift  your  load  again  ; 
Take  up  the  mourning  strain, 

Pour  the  deep  wail. 
Lo  !  the  expected  one 
To  his  place  passeth  on ; 

Grave,  bid  him  hail ! 

Yet,  yet,  ah  !  slowly  move ; 
Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

Fast  from  our  sight : 
Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  beam  on  him 

Last  looks  of  light. 

Here  dwells  his  mortal  foe ; 
Lay  the  departed  low. 

Even  at  his  gate : 
Will  the  dead  speak  again, 
Utt'ring  proud  boasts  and  vain, 

Last  words  of  hate  ? 

Lo !  the  cold  lips  unclose  ; 

List !  list !  what  sounds  are  those. 

Plaintive  and  low  ? 
"  0  thou,  mine  enemy. 
Come  forth  and  look  on  me 

*Ere  hence  I  go. 


MORTON  SEEKING    THE  BLIND    WIDOW.  81 

"  Curse  not  thy  foeman  now ; 
Mark  on  liis  pallid  brow 

Whose  seal  is  set. 
Pardoning,  I  pass  away  ; 
Then  wage  not  war  with  clay, 

Pardon,  —  forget !  " 

Now  all  his  labor  's  done, 
Now,  now  the  goal  is  won, 

0  grave,  we  come  ! 
Seal  up  tliis  precious  dust. 
Land  of  the  good  and  just ! 

Take  the  soul  home. 


Mrs.  Southey. 


Copied  :  three  days  from  St.  Helena,  Feb.  12,  1837. 


'T  IS  o'er,  he  sleeps ;  the  sea-bird  and  the  surge, 
The  tempest  breezes,  swell  his  only  dirge. 

Anonymous. 

MOPtTON   SEEKING   THE   BLIND    WIDOW. 

The  track  of  the  road  followed  the  course  of  the  brook,  which 
was  now  visible  and  now  only  to  be  distmguished  by  the  brawl- 
ing heard  among  the  stones,  or  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock  that 
occasionally  interrupted  its  course. 

"  Murmurer  that  thou  art,"  said  Morton,  in  the  entliusiasm  of 
his  reverie,  "  why  chafe  with  the  rocks  that  stop  thy  course  for  a 
moment  ?  There  is  a  sea  to  receive  thee  in  its  bosom,  and  an 
eternity  for  man  when  his  fretful  and  hasty  course  tlirough  the 
vale  of  time  shall  be  ceased  and  over.  What  thy  petty  fuming 
is  to  the  deep  and  vast  billows  of  a  shoreless  ocean  are  our 
cares,  hopes,  fears,  joys,  and  sorrows,  to  the  ol)jects  which 
must  occupy  us  through  the  awful  and  boundless  succession 
of  ages."  Scott,  Old  Mortality. 


82  ROB  ROY'S   GRAVE. 


SOUND,   SOUND   THE   CLARION. 

Sound,  sound  tlie  clarion,  fill  the  fife ! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 

Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

Scott,  Old  Mortalify. 

Copied  :  Sunday,  Feb.  19,  1837,  5°  S. 


ROB   ROY'S   GRAVE. 

A  FAMOUS  man  is  Robin  Hood, 
The  English  ballad-singer's  joy ! 

And  Scotland  has  a  thief  as  good, 

An  outlaw  of  as  daring  mood : 
She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy. 

Say,  then,  that  he  w^as  wise  as  brave,  — 
As  wise  in  thought,  as  bold  in  deed  ; 

For  in  the  principle  of  things 
He  sought  his  moral  creed. 

Said  generous  Rob,  "  What  need  of  books  ? 

Burn  all  the  statutes  and  their  shelves : 
They  stir  us  up  against  our  kind, 

And  worse,  against  ourselves. 

"We  have  a  passion,  make  a  law. 
Too  false  to  guide  us  or  control ; 

And  for  the  law  itself  we  fight 
In  bitterness  of  soul. 


ROB  ROY'S   GRAVE.  83 

"  And,  puzzled,  blinded  thus,  we  lose 

Distinctions  that  are  plain  and  few : 
These  find  I  graven  on  my  heart ; 

That  tells  me  what  to  do. 

"  The  creatures  see  of  flood  and  field, 

And  those  that  travel  on  the  wind ! 
With  them  no  strife  can  last :  they  live 

In  peace,  and  peace  of  mmd. 

*'  For  why  ?  because  the  good  old  rule 

Sufficeth  them,  —  the  simple  plan. 
That  they  should  take,  who  have  the  power, 

And  they  should  keep,  who  can. 

"A  lesson  which  is  quickly  learned, 

A  signal  this  which  all  can  see ! 
Thus  nothing  here  provokes  the  strong 

To  wanton  cruelty. 

"  All  freakishness  of  mind  is  checked  ; 

He  tamed,  who  foolishly  aspires ; 
While  to  the  measure  of  his  might 

Each  fashions  his  desires. 

*'  All  kinds  and  creatures  stand  and  fall 

By  strength  of  prowess  or  of  wit : 
'T  is  God's  app(jintment  who  must  sway 

And  who  is  to  submit. 

"Since  then,  the  rule  of  right  is  plain, 

And  longest  life  is  but  a  day ; 
To  have  my  ends,  maintain  my  rights, 

I  '11  take  the  shortest  way." 


84  ''MERRY  ENGLAND." 

And  thus  among  the  rocks  he  lived, 

Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  snow : 

The  eagle,  he  was  lord  above. 
And  l^ob  was  lord  below. 

Wordsworth. 
Copied  at  sea :  Sunday,  March  5,  1837  ;  N.  E.  Trade  ;  13°  X.,  42°  W. 


"MEEEY   ENGLAND." 

"  Merry  England ! "  what  picture  do  these  simple  words  recall ! 
Hamlets  resting  in  the  shelter  of  the  old  ancestral  hall ; 
Tower  and  spu'e,  and  park  and  palace,  halls  whose  hospitable  door 
Never  yet  repelled  the  weary,  never  closed  against  the  poor. 

Bands  of  yeomen,  brave  and  loyal ;  nobles,  courteous,  frank,  and 

free ; 
Fearless  rulers,  firmly  blending  gentleness  with  dignity ; 
Peaceful  days,  when  old  Eeligion,  like  a  silver-circling  band, 
Clasped  alike  round  prince  and  peasant,  bound  in  one  accord 

the  land. 

In  their  pew  beside  their  household.  Squire  and  Lady  duly  seen ; 
Blithesome  looks  at  fair  and  market,  lightsome  dance  on  village 

green ; 
Winter  nights,  wliere  kindly  neighbors  passed  the  harmless  jest 

or  tale. 
While  tlie  fagot's  cheerful  crackle  thawed  the  old  October  ale. 

Ruddy  children  daily  whooping  underneath  the  ancient  oak, 
Hoary  woods  around  them  ringmg  to  their  father's   stalwart 
stroke ; 


"MERRY  ENGLAND."  85 

Sunny  slopes,  where  busy  sickles  sparkled  through  the  golden 

grain  ; 
And  from  darkenmg  lanes  at  evening,  sportive  laugh  of  maid 

or  swam. 

Still  the  land  is  fair  as  ever ;  still  the  sun's  departing  glow 
Lies  as  bright  on  spire  and  turret,  lingering  there  as  loath  to 

go: 
But  the  sunshine  of  the  spirit,  trusting  heart,  and  open  brow,  — 
Whither  have  they  all  departed  ?     "  Merry  England,"  where  art 

thou  ? 

See,  through  yonder  blazing  city,  riot,  blood,  and  plunder  rave ; 

Europe's  savior  scarce  escaping  death  from  those  he  fought  to 
save; 

Startled  streets,  whose  mournful  echoes  render  back  the  bat- 
tle's din ; 

Elying  crowds,  and  charging  horsemen !  Peace  abroad,  but 
war  within. 

Where  the  faith  that  with  a   glory  wreathed  the   monarch's 

sacred  crown  ? 
Where  the  ties  that  linked  the  lowly  with  the  loftiest  peer's 

renown  ? 
Where  the  reverence,  deep  and  holy,  which  on  lawn  and  ermine 

saw 
God's  own  stamp,  and  in  their  wearers,  loved  religion,  feared 

the  law  ? 

Altars    spurned   and    thrones    insulted,   order  scoffed  at,  laws 

defied ; 
Factious  subjects,  dastard  rulers, — shifting  witli  the  shifting 

tide,  — 


86  MATERNAL   AFFECTION. 

Doubtful  present,  darker  future !     x\nxious  heart  and  clouded 

brow, 
These  are  now  thy  altered  features,  —  mournful  England,  such 

lou.  Anonymous,  Blackwood's  Maga::ine. 

Copied  from  the  "Boston  Patriot,"  Sunday,  March  12,  1837. 


EPITAPH   ON   NAPOLEON'S  TOMB   AT   ST.   HELENA. 

IN    IMITATION    OF    BOMBASTES. 

Here  lies  Boney,  stout  of  heart  and  limb, 
Who  conquered  all  but  Welly,  —  Welly,  him  ! 

Anonymous. 

MATEENAL  AFFECTION. 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood,  that  softens  the  heart  and  brings  it  back  to  the 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  languished,  even  in  advanced 
life,  in  sickness,  in  despondency,  —  who  that  has  pined  on  a 
weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land,  —  but 
has  thought  of  the  mother  that  looked  on  his  childhood,  that 
smoothed  his  pillow  and  administered  to  his  helplessness  ?  Oh, 
there  is  an  endearing  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother  to  a 
son  that  transcends  all  the  affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  neither 
to  1)6  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor 
stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his 
convenience.  She  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  pros- 
perity. If  adversity  overtake  him,  he  will  be  dearer  to  her  liy 
misfortune ;  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still 
love  and  cherish  him;  and  if  all  the  world  cast  him  off,  she 
will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Copied:  Sunday,  March  19,  1837;  28°  N.,  62"  W. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   FORGE.  87 


THE   SONG   OF   THE   FOKGE. 

Clang,  clang,  —  the  massive  anvils  ring ; 
Clang,  clang,  —  a  hundred  hammers  swing, 
Like  the  thunder  rattle  of  a  tropic  sky ; 
The  mighty  blows  still  multiply, 

Clang,  clang. 
Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow. 
What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 

Clang,  clang  —  we  forge  the  coulter  now. 
The  coulter  of  the  kindly  plough : 

Sweet  Mary  Mother,  bless  our  toil ; 
May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 
To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil. 

Clang,  clang  —  our  coulter's  course  shall  be 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sheltered  lea, 

By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide, 
Amidst  the  song  of  morning  birds. 
Amidst  the  low  of  sauntering  herds, 
Amidst  soft  breezes  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  May, 

Along  the  green  hill's  side. 

When  regal  autumn's  bounteous  hand 
With  widespread  glory  clothes  the  land, 

When  to  tlie  valleys,  from  the  brow 
Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 
A  ruddy  sea  of  living  gold, 

We  bless,  we  bless  the  plough. 


88  THE   SONG   OF   THE   FORGE. 

Clang,  clang  —  again,  my  mates,  what  glows 
Beneath  the  hammers'  potent  blows  ? 
Clang,  clang  —  we  forge  the  giant  chain, 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain 

'Midst  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 

Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 
The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 

The  storm  cloud  on  the  hill ; 
Calmly  he  rests,  though  far  away 
In  boisterous  climes  his  vessels  lay, 

Eeliant  on  our  skill. 

Say,  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep. 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep,  — 
By  Afric's  pestilential  shore  ; 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar; 
By  many  a  palmy  western  isle. 
Basking  in  Spring's  perpetual  smile ; 
By  stormy  Labrador. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 

The  crashing  broadside  make  reply  ; 
Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 
Hold  grappling  ships  that  strive  the  while 
For  death  or  victory  ? 

Hurrah  —  clang,  clang  —  once  more,  what  glows, 
Hark !  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 

The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 
The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 


THE   SONG   OF   THE  FORGE.  89 

Clang,  claug  —  a  Luriiiug  shower,  clear 
And  brilliant,  of  bright  sparks,  poured 

Around  and  up  in  the  dusky  air. 
As  our  hammers  forge  the  sword. 

The  sword  !  —  extreme  of  dread ;  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  't  is  bound, 

While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth. 

While  for  his  land  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  war  drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound, 

How  sacred  is  it  then  ! 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight,  — 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas ; 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain  and  stern, 
A  Marston,  or  a  Bannockburn ; 
Or  amidst  crags  and  bursting  rills. 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  hills ; 
Or,  as  when  sunk  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide,  — 

Still,  still,  whene'er  the  battle  word 
Is  Liberty,  where  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land, 

Then  Heaven  bless  the  Sword  1 

Anonymous, 
Calcutta  Quarterly  Magazine  and  Review. 

Copied:  Sunday,  March  19,  1837. 


90  LINES  IN  ANSWER    TO  A    QUESTION. 


LINES 

IN   ANSWER   TO   A   QUESTION. 

I  'll  tell  thee  why  this  weary  world  meseemeth 
But  as  the  visions  light  of  one  who  dreameth, 

Which  pass  like  clouds,  leaving  no  trace  beliind  ; 
Why  this  strange  life,  so  full  of  sin  and  folly, 
In  me  awakes  no  melancholy. 

Nor  leaveth  shade  or  sadness  o'er  my  mind. 
'T  is  not  that  with  an  undiscerning  eye 
I  see  the  pageant  wild  go  dancing  by, 

Mistaking  that  which  falsest  is  for  true ; 
'T  is  not  that  pleasure  hath  entwined  me, 
'T  is  not  that  sorrow  hath  enshrined  me,  — 

I  bear  no  badge  of  roses  or  of  rue,  — 
But  in  the  inmost  chambers  of  my  soul 

There  is  another  world,  a  blessed  home, 
O'er  which  no  living  power  holdeth  control, 

Anigh  to  which  ill  things  do  never  come. 
There  shineth  the  glad  sunlight  of  clear  thought, 

With  hope  and  faith  holding  communion  high. 
Over  a  fragrant  land,  with  flowers  y-wrought. 

Where  gush  the  living  springs  of  poesy. 
There  speak  the  voices  that  I  love  to  hear, 

There  smile  the  glances  that  I  love  to  see. 
There  live  the  forms  of  those  my  soul  holds  dear, 

Forever  in  that  secret  world  with  me. 
They  who  have  walked  with  me  along  life's  way, 

And  severed  been  by  fortune's  adverse  tide. 
Who  ne'er  again  through  time's  uncertain  day. 

In  weal  or  woe,  may  wander  by  my  side,  — 


NOW.  91 

These  all  dwell  here ;  nor  those  whom  life  alone 

Divideth  from  me,  but  the  dead,  the  dead, — 
Those  weary  ones  who  to  their  rest  are  gone, 

Wliose  footprints  from  the  earth  have  vanished, — 
Here  dwell  they  all :  and  here  within  this  world, 
Like  light  within  a  summer  sun-cloud  furled. 

My  spirit  dwells  ;  therefore  this  evil  life. 
With  all  its  gilded  snares  and  fair  deceivings, 
Its  wealth,  its  want,  its  pleasures,  and  its  grievings. 

Nor  frights,  nor  frets  me,  by  its  idle  strife. 
()  thou !  who  readest  of  thy  courtesy. 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  wish  the  same  to  thee. 

Mrs.  Kemble. 

('oi)if(l  :  Sunday,  March  26,  1837,  on  board  the  "  Luconia,"  edge  of  the  Gulf, 
sixty  miles  from  "  tlie  Cape  of  Storms,"  Hatteras.     S.  P.  C. 


NOW. 

Rise  !  for  the  day  is  passing, 

And  you  lie  dreaming  on  ; 
The  others  have  buckled  their  armor, 

And  forth  to  the  fidit  are  "one : 
A  place  in  the  ranks  awaits  you. 

Each  man  has  some  part  to  play ; 
The  past  and  the  future  are  nothing 

In  the  face  of  the  stern  to-day. 

Rise  from  your  dreams  of  the  future,  ■ 
Of  gaining  some  hard-fought  field ; 

Of  storming  some  airy  fortress. 
Or  bidding  some  giant  yield. 


92  ONE  BY  ONE. 

Your  future  has  deeds  of  glory, 

Of  honor  (God  grant  it  may) ; 
But  your  arm  will  never  be  stronger, 

Or  the  need  so  great  as  to-day. 

Rise  !  if  tlie  past  detains  you, 

Her  sunshine  and  storms  forget ; 
No  chains  so  unworthy  to  hold  you 

As  those  of  a  vain  regret : 
Sad  or  bright,  she  is  lifeless  ever ; 

Cast  her  phantom  arms  away. 
Nor  look  back  save  to  learn  the  lesson 

Of  a  nobler  strife  to-day. 

Rise !  for  the  day  is  passing. 

The  sound  that  you  scarcely  hear 
Is  the  enemy  marching  to  battle ; 

Arise,  for  the  foe  is  here. 
Stay  not  to  sharpen  your  weapons, 

Or  the  hour  will  strike  at  last. 
When  from  dreams  of  a  coming  battle 

You  may  wake  to  find  it  past. 

Adelaide  A.  Procter. 

Copied  from  a  newspaper,  Naushon,   Aug.  5,  1857.     Distributed  widely  as  a 
recruiting-sons  during  the  Rebellion. 


ONE^  BY   ONE. 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing. 
One  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 

Some  are  coming,  some  are  going ; 
Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 


ONE  BY  ONE.  93 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each  ; 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 
Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 

One  by  one  (bright  gifts  from  heaven) 

Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below ; 
Take  them  readily  when  given, 

Eeady  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet  thee, 

Do  not  fear  an  armed  band ; 
One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee. 

Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

I)o  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow, 
See  how  small  each  moment's  pain  ; 

God  will  help  thee  for  to-morrow, 
So  each  day  begin  again. 

Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 

Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear ; 
Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy. 

When  each  gem  is  set  with  care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting. 

Or  for  passing  hours  despond, 
Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting, 

Look  too  eagerly  beyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God's  token, 
Eeaching  heaven  ;  but  one  by  one 
Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 

Adp:laide  a.  Procter. 
Copied  from  a  newspaper,  Naitshox,  Aug.  5,  1857. 


94        TO  THE  FIRST  OF  THE  SERAPHIM,  —  UEA  Til. 


TO   THE   FIRST   OF   THE  SERAPHIM,  —  DEATH. 

Stars,  —  radiant  stars, 
Ye  tliat  troop  forth  in  your  diamond  cars, 

Who  shall  declare 
What  bright  things  bless  your  dwelling  fair  ? 

'"TisI;  'tis  I." 
0  Seraph,  dost  thou  deign  reply  ? 
Yes,  I  know  the  tones  of  that  voice  entrancing, 

And  I  turn  to  meet 

Its  whispering  sweet, 
And  to  catch,  if  it  may  be,  thy  balmy  breath, 
And  to  bask  in  the  light  from  thy  clear  eyes  glancing ; 

For  the  voice  is  thine. 
Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Guide  to  the  better  land,  —  benignant  Death- 
Flowers,  —  gem-like  flowers, 
Ye  light  earth's  else  benighted  bowers ; 
But  who  shall  tell  the  charm  that  in  your  deep  cups  dv*-e?l  ? 

"'TisI;  'tis  I." 
Comes  on  the  zephyr  the  prompt  reply. 
But,  violet,  't  is  not  thy  perfumed  sigh, 
And  't  is  not,  rose,  thy  fragrant  breath ; 

But  thine,  oh,  thine, 
Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine. 
Best  friend  and  fairest  hope,  —  benignant  Death. 

Moon,  —  spectral  moon , 
Ghding  through  pale  night's  haunted  noon, 
Who  shall  withdraw  the  veil 
That  shrouds  thy  being's  law  ? 


TO  THE  FIRST  OF  THE  SERAPHIM,  —  DEA  TH.  95 

"  This  hand,  this  hand." 
Again,  again  those  accents  bland, 
But  't  is  not  the  music  of  worshipping  spheres 
That  comes  to  bless  thy  votary's  ears, 
And  't  is  not  the  voice  of  a  sinking  star. 
Pouring  in  praise  its  latest  breath. 
But  a  voice  of  import  dearer  far. 

Thine,  yes,  thine. 
Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Best  friend,  and  fairest  hope,  —  benignant  Death. 

Waves,  —  glittering  waves. 
Ye  that  lie  soft  o'er  a  myriad  graves. 

How  shall  I  know 
What  ye  conceal  in  your  depths  below  ? 

"  Through  me,  through  me," 
In  music  floats  o'er  the  sounding  sea ; 

But  't  is  not  thou. 
Bright  southland  breeze,  that  art  whispering  now, 
Not  thou  that  through  the  bosom  stealing 
Wakest  the  troubled  depths  of  feeling,  — 
'T  is  a  warmer,  a  purer,  a  dearer  breath, 

Thine,  yes,  thine, 
Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Guide  to  the  better  land,  —  serenest  Death. 

Mrs.  Foster. 

Written  in  Eome  liy  a   friend  of  Mrs.   Ames,  one  of  Mrs.  Pollen's  English 
friends,  and  sent  by  her  to  Mrs.  Follen.     Copied:  Sept.  28,  1837. 


OG  THE  RIVER. 


WHAT   STEANGE,   DEEP   SECEET. 

What  strange,  deep  secret  dost  tliou  hold,  0  Death, 

To  hallow  those  thou  claimest  for  thine  own  ? 

That  which  the  open  book  could  never  teach 

Tlie  closed  one  whispers  as  we  stand  alone 

By  one  now  more  alone  than  we !  and  strive 

To  comprehend  the  passion  of  that  peace. 

In  vain  our  tlioughts  would  wind  within 

The  heart  of  that  great  mystery  of  release. 

Baptism  of  death,  which  steepest  infant  eyes 

In  grace  of  calm  the  saints  might  hope  to  wear ; 

Whose  cold  touch  purifies  the  guilty  brow. 

And  sets  again  the  seal  of  childhood  there  ! 

Our  line  of  life  in  vain  would  sound  thy  sea ; 

That  which  we  seek  to  know,  we  soon  shall  be. 

E.  S.  H. 
Copied  :  September,  1837. 


THE   RIVER 

ElVER,  river,  little  river, 

Bright  you  sparkle  on  your  way. 
O'er  the  yellow  pebbles  dancing. 
Through  the  flowers  and  foliage  glancing. 

Like  a  child  at  play. 

Ptiver,  river,  swelling  river. 

On  you  rush  o'er  rough  and  smooth ; 
Louder,  faster,  brawling,  leaping  , 
Over  rocks,  by  rose-banks  sweeping, 

Like  impetuous  youth. 


THE   DEAD  DOG.  97 

Eiver,  river,  brimming  river, 

Broad  and  deep  and  still  as  time, 

Seeming  still,  yet  still  in  motion, 

Tending  onward  to  the  ocean, 
Just  like  mortal  prime. 

Eiver,  river,  rapid  river. 

Swifter  now  you  slip  away  ; 
Swift  and  silent  as  an  arrow, 
Through  a  channel  dark  and  narrow. 

Like  life's  closing  day. 

Eiver,  river,  headlong  river, 

Down  you  dash  into  the  sea,  — 
Sea  that  line  hath  never  sounded, 
Sea  that  sail  hath  never  rounded, 
Like  eternity. 

Mrs.  Southet. 
Copied  :  MiLTOX,  Aug.  10,  1860. 


THE  DEAD   DOG. 

"  Poor  dog,  he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  never  forsook  me,  for  all  I  was  poor  ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter's  day, 
And  I  played  a  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray." 

Campbell. 

Up,  spaniel,  —  the  hunter  is  winding  his  horn 
In  the  green-wood ;  the  winged  echoes  float 

'Mid  the  bright-bannered  clouds  like  the  heralds  of  morn  :. 
Hear'st  thou  not  the  wild  choir,  —  hear'st  thou  not  ? 

Oh,  it  was  not  thy  wont  with  the  sluggard  to  lie 

When  the  dingles  were  voiced  with  the  shrill  hunting-cry., 


98  THE  DEAD  DOG. 

Up,  spaniel,  —  the  sunbeam  hath  stolen  on  thy  lair 

With  a  smile  that  rebuketh  thy  sleep, 
The  west  wind  is  lifting  thy  shining  brown  hair. 

Yet  thy  slumber  is  changeless  and  deep ; 
Can  the  sunbeam  not  kindle  thine  eye  as  of  old 
With  delight,  that  its  glance  is  so  dreamless  and  cold  ? 

The  west  wind,  —  oh,  list  to  the  spell  which  it  brings 
From  the  hills  and  the  green  forest  bowers, 

Wliere  the  wood  birds  sit  laving  their  beautiful  wmgs 
In  the  dew-drops  that  fill  the  wild  flowers. 

And  the  sun-bee's  glad  roundelay  bids  thee  rejoice  : 

Up,  up,  honest  heart,  with  thy  welcoming  voice ! 

You  stir  not ;  but  I  have  a  charm  beyond  all 
That  the  shrill  hunting  clarion  could  be. 

Or  the  soft  sunny  smiles  on  thy  Ijright  locks  that  fall, 
Or  the  wind's  wizard  numbers  to  thee, 

Or  the  wood-pigeon's  murmurs,  the  bee's  madrigals : 

Up,  Eoswall,  'tis  she  whom  thou  lovest  that  calls. 

'Tis  she  whom  thou  lovest,  —  her  voice  was  a  spell 

That  no  slumber  was  wont  to  disown. 
And  thy  heart  went  as  free  as  some  blithe  marriage  bell, 

When  her  grateful  caresses  were  won  ; 
Eut  now  —  oh,  what  change  has  come  over  that  heart 
When  her  gentlest  caress  can  no  pleasure  impart ! 

There's  a  step  on  the  threshold,  — the  stranger  is  come; 

Thou  art  stretched  his  dull  sliadow  beneath. 
He  has  spoke ;  but  thy  quick,  ringing  challenge  is  dumb. 

For  the  sentinel's  slumber  is  death. 
No  larum  can  rouse  thee ;  no  joy  of  the  past 
Can  give  light  to  thy  sleeping,  —  the  longest  and  last. 


EPITAPH   ON  A    SLAVE.  99 

But  the  merry  green  leaves  of  the  spring-time  shall  wave 

Like  some  bonny  bird's  wings  o'er  thy  bones, 
And  the  stars  and  the  sunlight  will  brood  o'er  thy  grave 

With  a  smile  that  had  gladdened  thee  once ; 
But  the  pencil  of  memory  with  holier  part 
Hath  engraven  thine  epitaph  deep  on  my  heart. 

,  A.  L.  Pickering, 

Spirit  of  the  Times,  Alaij  13,  1840. 


EPITAPH   ON   A  SLAVE   IN   OLD   "BURIAL   HILL; 
CONCORD,   MASS. 

Here  lies  the  body  of  John  Jack, 

A  native  of  Africa, 

Who  died  March  20th,  1773, 

Aged  about  sixty  years. 

God  wills  us  free ; 
Man  wills  us  slaves. 
I  will  as  God  wills ; 
God's  will  be  done. 

Though  born  in  a  land  of  slavery, 

He  was  born  free  ; 

Though  he  lived  in  a  land  of  freedom, 

He  lived  a  slave. 

Till  by  his  honest,  though  stolen  labors 

He  earned  the  source  of  slavery. 

Which  gave  him  his  freedom, 

Though  not  long  before  death. 

The  great  tyrant. 

Gave  him  his  final  emancipation. 


100  WHY  ? 

And  placed  him  on  a  footing  with  kings. 

Though  a  slave  to  vice, 

He  practised  those  virtues 

"Without  which  kings  are  but  slaves. 

Supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Daniel  Bliss,  of  Concord. 


WHY? 

ANSWER   TO    THE    QUESTION    WHY    I    WISH    TO    RETURN    TO 
NEW    ENGLAND. 

You  wonder  why  I  still  would  seek 

To  quit  this  land  of  yours, 
And  count  with  sorrow  every  week 

My  pilgrimage  endures. 
Y^ou  wonder  I  should  w4sh  to  fly, 

And  leave  such  scenes  behind  ; 
But  if  I  pass  their  beauties  by, 

Oh,  think  not  I  am  blind  ! 
There  is  the  beauty  for  the  eye, 

Another  for  the  mind. 
Your  skies  may  wear  a  deeper  hue, 

Your  woods  a  richer  green, 
And  brighter  spring-flowers  bloom  for  you, 

Than  I  have  ever  seen  ; 
But  in  our  rugged  land  to  me 
There  is  a  moral  scenery, 

A  sense  of  what  hath  been. 
That  makes  its  homeliness  more  dear 
Than  all  the  beauty  that  is  here  ; 
For  there  affection's  silken  chain 

First  linked  me  to  the  earth, 
There  have  I  wept  in  bitterest  pain. 

And  laughed  in  lightest  mirth. 


THE  LATE   DEPUTATION   TO  PARIS.  101 

There  is  my  ovm.,  own  Jiome. 
And  where  1  first  beheld  the  day, 
Still  let  me  tread  my  shaded  way ; 

And  when  the  Angel  comes, 
And  the  stern  mandate  bids  me  die, 
Though  sorrow  closed  the  lifted  eye,  . 

Yet  it  were  joy  to  know. 

That  when  my  ashes  sleep  below, 

New  England's  flower  will  o'er  me  blow, 

Above  me  drift  New  England  snow. 

And  bend  her  azure  sky. 

James  H.  Perkins. 


THE   LATE   DEPUTATION   TO  PARIS. 

"THE    MERCHANT    FRINGE." 

The  Merchant  Prince  of  England, 

Wliat  a  glorious  name  he  bears  ! 
No  minstrel  tongue  litis  ever  sung 

The  deeds  the  hero  dares. 
Enlist  that  soldier  in  your  Cause, 

No  dangers  bar  his  way. 
But  gallantly  he  draws  his  —  check, 

If  the  Cause  will  only  pay. 

Where  Freedom  waves  her  banners. 

He  stands,  her  champion  bold ; 
The  noble  English  Merchant  Prince 

For  her  unlocks  his  gold ; 
For  her  the  Prince's  glowing  pulse 

With  generous  ardor  thrills. 
If  only  sure  that  Freedom 

Will  duly  meet  her  bills. 


102  THE   LATE  DEPUTATION  TO  PARIS. 

When  scarce  the  gory  bayonet 

Upholds  the  Despot's  throne, 
The  Merchant  Prince,  all  chivalry. 

Springs  forward  with  a  loan  ; 
And  vain  a  nation's  cry  to  scare 

That  dauntless  friend  in  need. 
Provided  only  that  the  loan 

Is  safely  guaranteed. 

See  where  a  sovereign's  crown  rewards 

A  venturous  Parvenu, 
Crouches  the  Merchant  Prince  to  kiss 

His  royal  brother's  shoe. 
For  trampled  law,  for  broken  vow. 

No  doit  his  Princeship  cares. 
If  that  salute  can  raise,  an  eighth. 

His  gain  on  railway  shares. 

You,  Christian  of  the  slop-shop. 

And  you,  usurious  Jew, 
Assert  your  royal  blood,  for  both 

Are  Merchant  Princes  too. 
One  common  creed  unites  you. 

Devout  professors  of  it, 
"  There  's  but  one  Allah,  —  Mammon, 

And  Cent  per  Cent 's  his  profit." 

What !  blame  some  petty  huckster 
That  his  vote  is  bought  and  sold  ; 

What !  chide  some  wretched  juryman 
That  he  blinked  at  guilt,  for  gold ; 

What !  whip  some  crouching  mendicant. 
Who  fawned  that  he  might  eat  — 

With  the  ]\Ierchant  Prince  of  England 

At  the  Third  Napoleon's  feet  ? 

Anonymous,  Punch. 


\ 


THE  FIRE-FIEND.  103 

THE   FIRE-FIEND. 

A   NIGHTMARE. 

In  the  deepest  death  of  midnight,  while  the  sad  and  solemn  swell 
Still  was  floating,  faintly  echoed  from  the  forest  chapel  bell,  — 
Faintly,  falteringly  floating  o'er  the  sable  waves  of  air 
That  were  through  the  midnight  rolling,  chafed  and  billowy  with 

the  tolling, — 
In  my  chamber  I  lay  dreaming  by  the  firelight's  fitful  gleaming^ 
And  my  dreams  were  dreams  foreshadowed  on  a  heart  fore- 
doomed to  care. 

On  the  red  hearth's  reddest  centre,  from  a  blazing  knot  of  oak, 
Seemed  to  gibe  and  grin  this  phantom,  when  in  terror  I  awoke. 

Then,  as  in  Death's  seeming  shadow,  in  the  icy  pall  of  Fear, 
I  lay  stricken,  came  a  hoarse  and  hideous  murmur  to  my  ear,  — 
Came  a  murmur  like  the  murmur  of  assassins  in  their  sleep, 
Muttering,  "Higher !  higher  !  higher  !  I  am  Demon  of  the  Fire  ; 
I  am  Arch-Fiend  of  the  Fire,  and  each  blazing  roof  's  my  pyre, 
And  my  sweetest  incense  is  the  blood  and  tears  my  victims 
weep." 

Through  my  ivy-fretted  casements  filtered  in  a  tremulous  note 
From  the  tall  and  stately  linden,  where  a  robin  swelled  his 

throat,  — 
Querulous,  Quaker-breasted  robin,  calling  quaintly  for  his  mate  ! 
Then  I  started   up,  unbidden,  from   my  slumber,  nightmare- 
ridden. 
With  the  memory  of  that  fire-demon  in  my  central  fire, 
On  my  eye's  interior  mirror  like  the  shadow  of  a  fate ! 


104  THERE   WAS  A   LISTENING  FEAR. 

Ah !  the  liendish  lire  had  smouldered  to  a  white  and  formless 

heap, 
And  no  knot  of  oak  was  flaming  as  it  flamed  upon  my  sleep ; 
But  around  its  very  centre,  where  the  demon  face  had  shone, 
Forked   shadows  seemed  to  linger,  pointing  as  with  spectral 

linger 
To  a  Bible,  massive,  golden,  on  a  table  carved  and  olden. 
And  I  bowed  and  said,  "  All  power  is  of  God,  of  God  alone." 

POE. 

We  heard  Edgar  A.  Poe  recite  "The  Raven  "at  Mr.  Roderick  Sedgwick's, 
New  Yuuk,  with  great  effect ;  but  we  prefer  this  specimen  to  the  later  one. 


I'LL  HASTE   TO   QUAFF   MY  WINE. 

ANACREONTIC. 

To-DAY  I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine. 
As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  should  shine ; 
But  if  to-morrow  comes,  —  why,  then, 
I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine  agam. 

For  Death  may  come  with  brow  unpleasant. 
May  come  when  least  we  wish  him  present. 
And  beckon  to  the  sable  shore. 
And  grimly  bid  us  —  drink  no  more  ! 

Anonymous. 

THEEE  WAS   A   LISTENING   FEAR 

There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard. 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun ; 

As  if  the  vanward  cloud  of  evil  days 

Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  roar 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 

c.  r.  F. 

Milton  Hill. 


SENT  TO  HEAVEN.  105 


W.  M.  HUNT'S   FEENCH   SONG. 

Derri^re  chez  vous  il  y  a  I'lin  vert  bocage 
Ou  les  rossignols  y  cliaiitait  tous  les  jours, 
Et  la  il  dit  son  cliarmant  langage, 
"  Les  Amoureux  sont  malheureiix  toujours, 
Les  Amoureux  sont  inalheureux  toujours." 

La  nos  deux  noms  sont  ecrits  sur  un  t'rene, 
La  sur  un  frene  nos  deux  noms  sont  graves ; 
Temps  a  efface  nos  noms  sur  le  frene, 
Mais  dans  nos  coeurs  temps  les  a  conserves, 
Mais  dans  nos  coeurs  temps  les  a  conserves. 

Anonymous. 


SENT   TO   HEAVEN. 

I  HAD  a  message  to  send  her, 

To  her  whom  my  soul  loved  best ; 

But  I  had  my  task  to  finish. 

And  she  had  gone  home  to  rest,  — 

To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven, 
Oh,  so  far  away  from  here  ! 

It  was  vain  to  speak  to  my  darling. 
For  I  knew  she  could  not  hear. 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 
So  tender  and  true  and  sweet; 

I  longed  for  an  angel  to  bear  it, 
And  lay  it  down  at  her  feet. 


100  SENT   TO  HE  A  VEN. 

I  placed  it  one  summer  evening 
On  a  little  white  cloud's  breast;* 

But  it  faded  in  golden  splendor, 
And  died  in  the  crimson  west. 

I  gave  it  the  lark,  next  morning. 
And  I  watched  it  soar  and  soar ; 

But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and  weary. 
And  it  fluttered  to  earth  once  more. 

To  the  heart  of  a  rose  I  told  it ; 

And  the  perfume,  sweet  and  rare. 
Growing  faint  on  the  blue  bright  ether, 

Was  lost  in  the  balmy  air. 

I  laid  it  upon  a  censer, 

And  I  saw  the  incense  rise ; 

But  its  clouds  of  rolling  silver 

Could  not  reach  the  far  blue  skies. 

I  cried  in  my  passionate  longing : 
"  Has  the  earth  no  angel  friend 

Who  will  carry  my  love  the  message 
That  my  heart  desires  to  send  ? " 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music. 
So  mighty,  so  pure,  so  clear. 

That  my  very  sorrow  was  silent, 
And  my  heart  stood  still  to  hear. 

And  I  felt  in  my  soul's  deep  yearning 
At  last  the  sure  answer  stir,  — 

"The  music  will  go  up  to  heaven, 
And  carry  my  thought  to  her." 


SHALL    WE   EVER   MEET  AGAIN?  107 

It  rose  in  harinoiiious  rushiug 

Of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 
And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message 

On  the  music's  outspread  wings. 

I  heard  it  float  further  and  further, 
In  sound  more  perfect  than  speech ; 

Further  than  sight  can  follow, — 
Further  than  soul  can  reach. 

And  I  know  that  at  last  my  message 
Has  passed  through  the  golden  gate ; 

So  my  heart  is  no  longer  restless, 
And  I  am  content  to  wait. 

Adalaide  Pkoctor. 


SHALL  WE  EVER  MEET  AGAIN? 

Shall  we  ever  meet  again 

In  the  woodland  by  the  sea  ? 
Will  the  moment  bringing  pain 
To  the  heart  and  to  the  brain. 

Come  again  to  thee  and  me  ? 
Shall  we  hear  again  the  moaning 

Of  the  ocean  to  the  shore, 
Like  the  ever  low  intoning 

Of  a  celebrant,  Lenore  ? 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ? 

Ah  me,  that  Joy  should  borrow 
A  thorn  to  wound  the  heart 

From  the  pale  red  rose  of  Sorrow ! 
Adieu  !  for  we  must  part. 


108  THE   STORM. 

We  may  never  meet  again 

In  the  woodland  by  the  sea ; 
But  the  song  and  the  refrain 
Which  we  sang  beside  the  main 

Will  be  ever  dear  to  me. 
There  is  no  sun  that  shineth 

But  hath  its  spot  of  shade ; 
The  brightest  day  declineth, 

And  sweetest  roses  fade. 
We  may  never  meet  again. 

Ah  me,  that  Love  should  borrow  ' 
A  thorn  to  wound  the  heart 

From  the  pale-red  rose  of  Sorrow ! 

Adieu  !  for  we  must  part. 

Edward  Capern. 

THE   STORM. 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer ! 

List,  ye  landsmen  all,  to  me ; 
Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sailor 

Sing  the  dangers  of  the  sea : 
From  bounding  billows,  fierce  in  motion. 

When  the  distant  whirlwinds  rise. 
To  the  tempest-troubled  ocean. 

Where  the  seas  contend  with  skies. 

Hark !  the  boatswain  hoarsely  bawling, 

By  topsail  sheets  and  haulyards  stand ! 
Down  top-gallants  quick  be  hauling  I 

Down  your  staysails,  —  hand,  boys,  hand! 
Now  it  freshens,  set  the  braces. 

The  lee  topsail-sheets  let  go : 
Luff',  boys,  luff" !  don't  make  wry  faces, 

Up  your  topsails  nimbly  clew. 


THE   STORM.  lOP 

The  topsail-yarcls  point  to  the  wind,  boys, 

See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course ; 
Let  the  foresheet  go,  —  don't  mind,  boys, 

Though  the  weather  should  prove  worse. 
Fore  and  aft  the  spritsail-yard  get, 

Eeef  the  mizzen,  see  all  clear ; 
Hands  up,  each  preventer-brace  set ! 

Man  the  fore-yards  !     Cheer,  lads,  cheer ! 

Now  the  dreadful  thunder  roaring. 

Peal  on  peal  contending  clash. 
On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring. 

In  our  eyes  blue  lightnings  flash. 
One  wide  water  all  around  us. 

All  above  us  one  black  sky ; 
Different  deaths  at  once  surround  us, — 

Hark  !  what  means  that  dreadful  cry  ? 

The  foremast 's  gone !  cries  every  tongue  out, 

O'er  the  lee,  twelve  feet  'bove  deck : 
A  leak  beneath  the  chest-tree  's  sprung  out,  — 

Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 
Quick  !  the  lanyards  cut  to  pieces  : 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold ! 
Plumb  the  well,  —  the  leak  increases. 

Pour  feet  water  in  the  hold ! 

While  o'er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating, 

We  our  wives  and  children  mourn : 
Alas !  from  hence  there 's  no  retreating  ; 

Alas  !  from  hence  there  's  no  return. 
Still  the  leak  is  gaining  on  us. 

Both  chain-pumps  are  choked  below ; 
Heaven  have  mercy  here  upon  us  ! 

For  only  that  can  save  us  now. 


110  DIRGE    OF  ALARIC   THE    VISKJUTll. 

O'er  tlie  lee-beam  is  the  land,  l)oys ! 

Let  the  guns  o'erboard  be  thrown  : 
To  the  pump  come  every  hand,  boys ! 

See,  our  mizzen-mast  is  gone  ! 
The  leak  we  've  found,  it  cannot  pour  fast : 

We  've  lightened  her  a  foot  or  more ; 
Up  and  rig  a  jury  foremast, — 

She  rights  !  she  rights,  boys  !  we  're  off  shore  ! 

(t.  a.  Stevens. 
Sung  by  Dr.  John  Jennison  on  the  "  Lintin." 


DIEGE   OF   ALAEIC    THE   VISIGOTH. 

Alaric  stormed  and  spoiled  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was  afterwards  buried  in  the 
channel  of  the  river  Busentius,  the  water  of  which  had  been  diverted  fioni  its 
course  that  the  body  might  be  interred. 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear ; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 

Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose ; 
Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust. 

In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes  : 
Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 
Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast. 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest, 


DIRGE   OF  ALARIC   THE    VISIGOTH.  Ill 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 
On  him  that  was  "  the  scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there  : 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  King  of  Kings ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said, 
Until  the  deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth,  — 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king. 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth  ; 

For,  e'en  though  dead,  will  I  control  ' 

The  trophies  of  a  capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain  tide 
Ye  've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot. 

Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 

For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 

Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look, 

And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 

The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  was  like  a  river  deep. 

And  from  the  northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep. 
And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  cursed ; 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 


112  DIRGE   OF  ALARIC    THE    VISIGOTH. 

See  how  their  liaughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth  ; 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  (|uail 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth  ; 

And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels, 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot  wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car; 

'T  was  God  alone  on  high  did  send 
The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 

To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 

The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 
O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm ; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steered, 

And  vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
"When,  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  my  way  through  seas  of  blood, 
And  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers. 
And  feeble  Ccesars  shrieked  for  help 

In  vain  within  their  seven-hilled  towers 
I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 
That  glittered  m  their  diadem. 
And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  dye 
In  the  purple  of  their  majesty, 
And  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 
Upon  the  conquered  Palatine. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done : 
I  go  to  him  from  whom  I  came ; 


THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE.  113 

But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name  ; 
And  Koman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done : 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate. 
Impatient  round  the  eternal  throne 

And  in  the  caves  of  vengeance,  wait ; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  Alaric. 

Edward  Everett. 


THE   AMEEICAN   EAGLE. 

There  's  a  fierce  gray  bird,  with  a  bending  beak, 

With  an  angry  eye,  and  a  startling  shriek. 

That  nurses  her  brood  where  the  cliff  flowers  blow, 

On  the  precipice  top,  in  perpetual  snow  ; 

That  sits  where  the  air  is  shrill  and  bleak. 

On  the  splintered  point  of  a  shivered  peak. 

Bald-headed  and  stripped,  like  a  vulture  torn 

In  wind  and  strife,  her  feathers  worn. 

And  ruffled  and  stained,  while  loose  and  bright 

Ptound  her  serpent  neck,  that  is  writhing  and  bare, 

Is  a  crimson  collar  of  gleaming  hair. 
Like  the  crest  of  a  warrior,  thinned  in  fight. 

And  shorn,  and  bristling :  see  her,  where 

She  sits  in  the  glow  of  the  sun-bright  air, 
With  wing  half  poised,  and  talons  bleeding, 

And  kindling  eye,  as  if  her  prey 

Had  suddenly  been  snatched  away, 
While  she  was  tearinij  it  and  feeding. 


114  THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE. 

Above  the  dark  torrent,  above  the  bright  stream, 

The  voice  may  be  heard 

Of  the  Thunderer's  bird 
Calling  out  to  her  God  in  a  clear,  wild  scream, 
As  she  mounts  to  his  throne  and  unfolds  in  his  beam ; 
While  her  young  are  laid  out  in  his  rich,  red  blaze. 
And  their  winglets  are  fledged  in  his  hottest  rays. 
Proud  bird  of  the  cliff,  where  the  barren  yew  springs. 
Where  the  sunshine  stays,  and  the  wind-harp  sings. 
She  sits,  unapproachable,  pluming  her  wings. 
She  screams,  —  she 's  away,  —  over  hill-top  and  flood, 
Over  valley  and  rock,  over  mountain  and  wood. 
That  bird  is  abroad  in  the  van  of  her  brood. 
'T  is  the  bird  of  our  banner,  the  free  bird  that  braves, 
When  the  battle  is  there,  all  the  wrath  of  the  waves ; 
That  dips  her  pinions  in  the  sun's  first  gush ; 
Drinks  his  meridian  blaze,  his  farewell  flush ; 
Sits  amid  stirring  stars,  and  bends  her  beak, 
Like  the  slipped  falcon,  when  her  piercing  shriek 
Tells  that  she  stoops  upon  her  cleaving  wing. 
To  drink  at  some  new  victim's  clear,  red  spring. 
That  monarch  bird,  she  slumbers  in  the  night 
Upon  the  lofty  air-peak's  utmost  height ; 
Or  sleeps  upon  the  wing,  amid  the  ray 
Of  steady,  cloudless,  everlasting  day  ; 
Rides  with  the  Thunderer  in  his  blazing  march, 
And  bears  his  lightnings  o'er  yon  boundless  arch ; 
Soars  wheeling  through  the  storm,  and  screams  away, 
Where  the  young  pinions  of  the  morning  play ; 
Broods  with  her  arrows  in  the  hurricane ; 
Bears  her  green  laurel  o'er  the  starry  plain, 
And  sails  around  the  skies  and  o'er  the  rolling  deeps. 
With  still  unwearied  wing,  and  eye  that  never  sleeps. 

Neal. 


NEW  ENGLAND.  11^ 


NEW   ENGLAND. 

Hail  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread. 

Our  fondest  boast ! 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled. 
Who  sleep  on  glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host : 
No  slave  is  here ;  our  unchained  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 
Our  coast. 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore  : 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 
She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
And,  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppressed  : 
All  who  the  wreath  of  freedom  twine 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine. 
Are  blessed. 

Pkrcival. 


116  ADDRESS    TO    THE  AICMMl'. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   MUMMY   IN   BELZONI'S 
EXHI15ITI0N. 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story !) 
In  Thebes's  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak,  —  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy  ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue,  —  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune  : 
Thou  'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground,  mummy, 

Eevisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures. 
But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

Tell  us  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  Pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade, 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest ;  if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain,  —  Egyptian  priests  ne'er  owned  their  juggles. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE  MUMMY.  117 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass  ; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 

Or  doffed  thuie  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed. 
Has  any  Eoman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled ; 

For  thou  wert  dead  and  buried  and  embalmed 
Ere  Eomulus  and  Pemus  had  been  suckled : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Since  first  tliy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations : 

The  Poman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended ; 

New  worlds  have  risen,  we  have  lost  old  nations, 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled. 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 
Wlien  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'ertlirew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  tlie  Pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed. 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold  : 
A  heart  has  throbljed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  tliat  dusky  cheek  have  rolled; 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  ? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 


118  THE   GREEK  EMIGRANT'S   SONG. 

Statue  of  iiesli,  —  immortal  of  the  dead  ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 

AVhy  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  ? 
Oh,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume. 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 

Horace  Smith, 
London  New  Monthly  Magazine. 


THE   GEEEK  EMIGRANT'S   SONG. 

Now  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave  ; 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore. 
I  will  not  live,  a  cowering  slave, 

In  these  polluted  islands  more; 
Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea 
There  is  a  better  home  for  me. 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore, 
And  out  to  sea  the  streamers  fly. 
■  My  music  is  the  dashing  roar, 
My  canopy  the  stainless  sky; 

It  bends  above,  so  fair  a  blue. 

That  heaven  seems  openmg  to  my  view. 


rilE   GREEK  EMIGRANT'S   SONG.  119 

I  will  not  live  a  cowering  slave, 

Though  all  the  charms  of  life  may  sliine 

Around  me,  and  the  land,  the  wave. 
And  sky  be  drawn  in  tints  divine: 

Give  lowering  skies  and  rocks  to  me. 

If  there  my  spuit  can  be  free. 

Sweeter  than  spicy  gales  that  blow 

From  orange  groves  with  wooing  breath, 

The  winds  may  i'rom  these  islands  flow ; 
But  't  is  an  atmosphere  of  death,  — 

The  lotus  which  transformed  the  brave 

And  haughty  to  a  willing  slave. 

Softer  than  Minder's  winding  stream, 

The  wave  may  ripple  on  this  coast, 
And,  brighter  than  the  morning  beam. 

In  golden  swell  be  round  it  tost : 
Give  me  a  rude  and  stormy  shore. 
So  power  can  never  threat  me  more. 

Brighter  than  all  the  tales  they  tell 

Of  Eastern  pomp  and  pageantry, 
Our  sunset  skies  in  glory  swell. 

Hung  round  with  glowing  tapestry ; 
The  horrors  of  a  whiter  storm 
Swell  brighter  o'er  a  freeman's  form. 

The  Spring  may  here  with  Autumn  twine, 
And  both  combined  may  rule  the  year, 

And  fresh-blown  flowers  and  racy  wme 
In  frosted  clusters  still  be  near : 

Dearer  the  wild  and  snowy  hills 

Where  hale  and  ruddy  Freedom  smiles. 


120  WHAT  IS  PRAYER  f 

Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea. 
And  ocean's  stormy  vastness  o'er, 

There  is  a  better  home  for  me, 
A  welcomer  and  dearer  shore  ; 

There  hands  and  hearts  and  souls  are  twined, 
And  free  the  man,  and  free  the  mind. 

Percival. 


WHAT   IS   PEAYEE? 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire. 

Uttered  or  unexpressed ; 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh. 

The  falling  of  a  tear, 
The  upward  glancing  of  the  eye, 

Wlien  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try  ; 
Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice, 

Eeturning  from  his  ways, 
Wliile  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice. 

And  cry,  "  Behold,  he  prays  ! " 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath, 

The  Christian's  native  air; 
His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death : 

He  enters  heaven  with  prayer. 


COME,    THOU  ALMIGHTY  KING.  121 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one 

In  word  and  deed  and  mind, 
While  with  the  Father  and  the  Son 

Sweet  fellowship  they  find. 


0  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God ! 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way ! 
The  path  of  prayer  Thyself  hast  trod 

Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 


Montgomery. 


COME,   THOU    ALMIGHTY    KING. 

Come,  thou  Almighty  King, 
Help  us  thy  name  to  sing, 

Help  us  to  praise  ; 
Father  all-glorious, 
O'er  all  victorious, 
Come,  and  reign  over  us, 

Ancient  of  days. 

Jesus,  our  Lord,  arise. 
Scatter  our  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall; 
Let  thine  almighty  aid 
Our  sure  defence  be  made ; 
Our  souls  on  thee  be  stayed : 

Lord,  hear  our  call. 

Come,  thou  incarnate  Word, 
Gird  on  thy  mighty  sword. 
Our  prayer  attend ; 


122  SERVANT   OF  GOD,    WELL   DONE. 

Come,  and  thy  people  bless, 
And  give  thy  word  success : 
Sph'it  of  holmess, 
On  us  descend. 

Come,  holy  Comforter, 
Thy  sacred  witness  bear 

In  this  glad  hour : 
Thou,  who  ahnighty  art. 
Now  rule  in  every  heart. 
And  ne'er  from  us  depart, 

Spirit  of  power. 

To  the  great  One  and  Three 
Eternal  praises  be 

Hence,  evermore. 
His  sovereign  majesty 
May  we  in  glory  see. 
And  to  eternity 

Love  and  adore. 

Charles  Wesley, 


SERVANT   OF   GOD,   WELL  DONE! 

Servant  of  God,  well  done ! 

Thy  glorious  warfare 's  past ; 
The  battle  's  fought,  the  race  is  won, 

And  thou  art  crowned  at  last,  — 

Of  all  thy  heart's  desire 

Triumphantly  possessed ; 
Lodged  by  the  ministerial  choir 

In  the  Redeemer's  breast. 


AWAKE   MY  SOUL,   STRETCH  EVERY  NERVE.      l'2o 

In  condescending  love, 

The  ceaseless  prayer  he  heard, 
And  bade  thee  suddenly  remove 

To  thy  complete  reward. 

With  saints  enthroned  on  high, 

Thou  dost  thy  Lord  proclaim, 
And  still  to  God  salvation  cry,  — 

Salvation  to  the  Lamb. 

O  happy,  happy  soul, 

In  ecstasies  of  praise, 
Long  as  eternal  ages  roll. 

Thou  seest  thy  Saviour's  face. 

Redeemed  from  earth  and  pain. 

Ah,  when  shall  we  ascend, 
And  all  in  Jesus'  presence  reign 

With  our  translated  friend  ? 

Charles  Wesley. 


AWAKE,   MY   SOUL,   STRETCH  EVERY  NERVE. 

Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve. 

And  press  with  vigor  on ; 
A  heavenly  race  demands  thy  zeal. 

And  an  immortal  crown. 

'T  is  God's  all-animating  voice 

That  calls  thee  from  on  high; 
'T  is  he  whose  hand  presents  the  prize 

To  thine  aspiring  eye. 


124  NEARER,   MY  GOD,    TO   THEE. 

A  cloud  of  witnesses  around 

Hold  thee  in  full  survey  ; 
Forget  the  steps  already  trod, 

And  onward  urge  thy  way. 

Blest  Saviour,  introduced  by  thee, 

Our  race  have  we  begun  ; 
And,  crowned  with  victory,  at  thy  feet 

We  '11  lay  our  trophies  down. 

Doddridge. 


NEAEER,   MY    GOD,   TO   THEE. 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me  ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 

Though  like  a  wanderer. 
The  sun  gone  down. 

Darkness  be  over  me. 
My  rest  a  stone ; 

Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven  ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given ; 


THE  DYING   CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL.  125 

Angels  to  beckon  me 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

Then,  with  my  wakmg  thought  5 

Bright  with  thy  praise. 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Bethel  I  '11  raise  ; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky. 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee. 

Nearer  to  thee ! 


Sarah  Flower  Adams. 


Sung  Oct.  10,  1860. 


THE  DYING   CHEISTIAN   TO  HIS   SOUL. 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying  I 
Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper  :  angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away  ! 


126  THE  BURIAL    OF  ARXOLD. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  ray  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  death  ? 

The  world  recedes  ;  it  disappears : 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes;  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring  : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !  I  mount !  I  fly  ! 
0  grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0  death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 


Pope. 


THE   BURIAL   OF   ARNOLD.i 

Ye  've  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  ; 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there, 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he  at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall  ? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously. 

And  his  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
Oh,  had  it  been  but  told  you  then. 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim. 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped  men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him  ? 

1  Member  of  the  Senior  class  in  Yale  College. 


THE  BURIAL    OF  ARNOLD.  127 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm  which  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring  ? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung, 

Yet  not  for  glorying  ? 
W^hose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and  thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 

There  lies  he,  —  go  and  look. 

On  now,  —  his  requiem  is  done. 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said,  — 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades,  on. 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead  ! 
Slow,  —  for  it  presses  heavily. 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear. 
Slow,  —  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noblest  sleeper  there. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades,  —  we  have  laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow, 
Like  life,  save  deeper  light  and  shade ; 

We  11  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly,  —  for  't  is  beautiful, 

That  blue-veined  eyelid's  sleep. 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull ; 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Rest  now,  —  his  journeying  is  done. 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod ; 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion. 

He  waiteth  here  his  God. 
Ay,  turn  and  weep,  —  't  is  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here  ; 

For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 

Wilms. 


128  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


THE   PILGEIM   FATHEES. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  —  where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  lirought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore,  — 
Still  roll  in  the  bay  as  they  rolled  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moored  below. 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide  ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep. 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

Wlien  the  heavens  look  dark,  is  gone,  — 
As  an  angel's  wing  through  an  openmg  cloud 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Pilgrim  exile,  —  sainted  name  !  — 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame. 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea. 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head  ; 

But  the  Pilgrim,  —  where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest ; 

When  summer's  throned  on  high. 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 


])EAT]f    OF  JOSEPH    RODMAN   DRAKE.  12i) 

The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  the  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  lias  not  tied : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
It  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore. 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay  where  the  Mayflower  lay 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 

PlERPONT. 


OX   THE   DEATH    OF   JOSEPH    EODMAN   DRAKE. 

DIED    IN    NEW   YORK,   SEPTEMBER,    1820. 

"  The  good  die  first, 
And  tliey  Avhose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Bum  to  the  socket." 

"\V0RD.SW0HTH. 

Green  be  the  turf  alcove  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying. 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep. 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 

AVill  tears  the  cold  turf  steep. 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven. 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
D 


130  THE   MEETING   OF   THE   SHIPS. 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

AVho  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine,  — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow  ; 
But  1  Ve  in  vain  essayed  it. 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

"NMiile  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free. 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

Halleck. 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   SHIPS. 

When  o'er  the  silent  seas  alone 
For  days  and  nights  we  've  cheerless  gone, 
Oh,  they  who  've  felt  it  know  how  sweet. 
Some  sunny  morn,  a  sail  to  meet. 

Sparkling  on  deck  is  every  eye, 

"  Ship  ahoy  !  ship  ahoy  ! "  our  joyful  cry  ; 

While  answering  back  the  sounds  we  hear, 

"  Ship  ahoy  !  ship  ahoy  ! "  what  cheer  ?  what  cheer  ? 

Then  sails  are  backed,  we  nearer  come, 
Kind  words  are  said  of  friends  and  home ; 
And  soon,  too  soon,  we  part  with  pain, 
To  sail  o'er  silent  seas  again. 


Moore. 


Suiii^  })}•  S.  S.  F. 


THE  BONNY  BOAT.  131 


THE   BONNY   BOAT. 


Oh,  swiftly  glides  the  bonny  boat, 

Just  parted  from  the  shore, 
And  to  the  fisher's  chorus  note 

Soft  moves  the  dripping  oar. 
These  toils  are  borne  with  happy  cheer, 

And  ever  may  they  speed, 
That  feeble  age,  and  helpmate  dear, 

And  tender  bairnies  feed. 

CHORUS. 

We  cast  our  linos  in  Largo  Bay, 

Our  nets  are  floating  wide  ; 
Our  bonny  boat  with  yielding  sway 

Rocks  lightly  to  the  tide. 
And  happy  prove  our  daily  lot 

Upon  the  summer  sea, 
And  blest  on  land  our  kindly  cot, 

Where  all  our  treasures  be. 

The  mermaid  on  her  rock  may  sing, 

The  witch  may  weave  her  charm, 
Nor  water-sprite,  nor  eldrich  thing, 

The  bonny  boat  can  harm. 
It  safely  bears  its  scaly  store 

Through  many  a  stormy  gale  ; 
While  joyful  shouts  rise  from  the  shore, 

Its  homeward  prow  to  hail. 
We  cast  our  lines,  &c. 

Now,  safe  arrived  on  shores,  we  meet 
Our  friends  with  happy  cheer. 


lo2  SONG. 

And  with  the  fisher's  chorus  greet 
All  those  we  hold  most  dear. 

"With  happy  cheer  the  echoing  cove 
Eepeats  the  chanted  note, 

As  homeward  to  our  cot  we  move 
Our  bonny,  bonny  boat. 
We  cast  our  lines,  &c. 


Sung  by  S.  S.  F. 


Joanna  Baillie, 


SONG. 

Eow  gently  here, 

My  gondolier  ! 
So  softly  wake  the  tide, 

That  not  an  ear 

On  earth  may  hear, 
But  hers  to  whom  we  glide. 

Had  heaven  but  tongues  to  speak, 

As  well  as  starry  eyes  to  see ; 
Oh,  think  what  tales  't  would  have  to  tell 

Of  wandering  youths  like  me. 

Now  rest  thee  here, 

My  gondolier ! 
Hush,  hush,  for  up  1  go, 

To  climb  yon  light 

Balcony's  height. 
While  thou  keep'st  watch  below. 

Oh,  did  we  take  for  heaven  above, 

But  half  such  pains  as  we 

Take  day  and  night  for  woman's  love. 

What  angels  we  should  be  ! 

Moore. 


THE  HIGHLANDER.  133 


THE   HIGHLANDER. 

Many  years  ago,  a  poor  Highland  soldier  on  his  return  to  his  native  hills, 
fatigued,  as  it  was  supposed,  by  the  length  of  the  march  and  the  heat  of  the 
weather,  sat  down  under  the  shade  of  a  birch-tree,  on  the  solitary  road  of  I.ownn, 
that  winds  along  the  margin  of  Loch  Ken,  in  Galloway.  Here  he  was  found  dead ; 
and  this  incident  forms  the  subject  of  the  following  verses. 

From  the  climes  of  the  sun,  all  war-worn  and  weary, 
The  Highlander  sped  to  his  youthful  abode ; 

Fair  visions  of  home  cheered  the  desert  so  dreary. 

Though  fierce  was  the  noonbeam  and  steep  was  the  road. 

Till,  spent  with  the  march  that  still  lengthened  before  him, 
He  stopped  by  the  way  in  a  sylvan  retreat ; 

The  light  shady  boughs  of  the  birch-tree  waved  o'er  him, 
And  the  stream  of  the  mountain  fell  soft  at  his  feet. 

He  sunk  to  repose  where  the  red  heaths  are  blended. 
One  dream  of  his  childhood  his  fancy  passed  o'er ; 

])Ut  his  battles  are  fought,  and  his  march  —  it  is  ended  : 
The  sound  of  the  bagpipe  shall  wake  him  no  more. 

No  arm  in  the  day  of  the  conflict  could  wound  him, 
Though  war  launched  her  thunder  in  fury  to  kill ; 

Now  the  angel  of  death  in  the  desert  has  found  him, 
Now  stretched  him  in  peace  by  the  stream  of  the  hill. 

Tale  autumn  spreads  o'er  liim  the  leaves  of  the  forest, 
The  fays  of  the  wild  chant  the  dirge  of  his  rest ; 

And  thou,  little  brook,  still  the  sleeper  deplorest. 

And  moistenest  the  heath-bell  that  weeps  on  his  breast. 

W.  Gillespie. 


134  CASABIANCA. 


CASABIANCA. 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  he  had  fled ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beavitiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  childlike  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on,  —  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below. 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  !  " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father,"  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone  !  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied. 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath. 

And  in  his  waving  hair. 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 


NEVER    OR   NOW.  1:^5 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father,  must  I  stay  ? " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shruud  ; 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild. 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high. 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound ; 

The  boy,  —  oh,  wdiere  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea,  — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part ; 
But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 

Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 

Mrs.  Hemans. 
Repeated  by  K.  S. 


NEVER   OR   NOW. 

AN   APPEAL. 

Listen,  young  heroes  !  your  country  is  calling  ! 

Time  strikes  the  hour  for  the  brave  and  the  true 
Now,  while  the  foremost  are  fighting  and  falling. 

Fill  up  the  ranks  that  have  opened  for  you  ! 

You  whom  the  fathers  made  free  and  defended, 
Stain  not  the  scroll  that  emblazons  their  fame. 

You  whose  fair  heritage  spotless  descended, 
Leave  not  your  children  a  birthright  of  shame ! 


136  NEVER    on   NOW. 

Stay  not  for  questions  while  Freedom  stands  gasping ! 

Wait  not  till  Honor  lies  \vra])ped  in  his  pall  ! 
Brief  the  lips'  meeting  be,  swift  the  hands'  clasping,  — 

"  Off  for  the  wars  !  '  is  enough  for  them  all. 

Break  from  the  arms  that  would  fondly  caress  you  ! 

Hark  !  't  is  the  bugle  blast,  sabres  are  drawn  ! 
Mothers  shall  pray  for  you,  fathers  shall  bless  you. 

Maidens  shall  weep  for  you  when  you  are  gone  1 

Never  or  now  !  cries  the  blood  of  a  nation, 

Poured  on  the  turf  where  the  red  rose  should  bloom ; 

Now  is  the  day  and  the  hour  of  salvation,  — 
Never  or  now  !  peals  the  trumpet  of  doom. 

Never  or  now  !  roars  the  hoarse-throated  cannon 
Through  the  black  canopy  blotting  tlie  skies  ; 

Never  or  now  !  flaps  the  shell-blasted  pennon 
O'er  the  deep  ooze  where  the  Cumberland  lies. 

From  the  foul  dens  where  our  brothers  are  dying, 
Aliens  and  foes  in  the  land  of  their  birth,  — 

From  the  rank  swamps  where  our  martyrs  are  lying 
Pleading  in  vain  for  a  handful  of  earth,  — 

From  the  hot  plains  where  they  perish  outnumbered, 
Furrowed  and  ridged  by  the  battle-field's  plough. 

Comes  the  loud  summons  ;  too  long  you  have  slumbered, 
Hear  the  last  Angel-trump,  —  Never  or  Now  : 

1862.  Holmes. 


QUA    CURSUM    VENTUS.  137 


QUA   CUESUM   VENTUS. 

As  ships,  becalmed  at  eve,  that  lay 
With  canvas  drooping,  side  by  side, 

Two  towers  of  sail  at  dawn  of  day, 

Are  scarce,  long  leagues  apart,  descried  ; 

When  fell  the  night,  upspruiig  the  breeze, 
And  all  the  darkling  hours  they  plied. 

Nor  dreamt  but  each  the  self-same  seas 
By  each  was  cleaving,  side  by  side  : 

E'en  so  —  but  why  the  tale  reveal 

Of  those  whom,  year  by  year  unchanged, 

Brief  absence  joined  anew  to  feel, 

Astounded,  soul  from  soul  estranged  ? 

At  dead  of  night  their  sails  were  filled, 
And  onward  each  rejoicing  steered  ; 

Ah,  neither  blame,  for  neither  willed, 
Or  wist,  what  first  with  dawn  appeared  ! 

To  veer,  how  vain  !     On,  onward  strain. 
Brave  barks  !     In  light,  in  darkness  too, 

Through  winds  and  tides  one  compass  guides, 
To  that  and  your  own  selves  be  true. 

But  0  blithe  breeze,  and  0  great  seas. 
Though  ne'er,  that  earliest  parting  past. 

On  your  wide  plain  they  join  again. 
Together  lead  them  home  at  last ! 


13«  FILL    THE  BUMPER   FAIR! 

One  port  methought  alike  they  sought, 
One  purpose  hold  where'er  they  fare, 

0  bounding  breeze,  0  rushing  seas, 
At  last,  at  last,  unite  them  there  ! 


Arthur  Hugh  Clough. 


FILL  THE   BUMrEPt   FAIE! 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes, 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say. 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions. 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starred  dominions  ; 
So  we,  Sages,  sit 

And,  'mid  bumpers  brightening. 
From  the  heaven  of  Wit 

Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 


FILL    THE  BUMPER   FAIR.  139 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennoblmg  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit  ? 
It  chanced  upon  that  day, 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us, 

The  careless  Youth,  when  up 

To  Glory's  fount  aspiring. 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup 

To  hide  the  pilfered  fire  in. 
But,  oh,  his  joy  when,  round 

The  halls  of  heaven  spying. 
Among  the  stars  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl. 

Remains  of  last  night's  pleasure. 
With  which  the  Sparks  of  Soul 

Mixed  their  burning  treasure. 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Moore. 


140  DRINK   TO  IIER. 


DHINK   TO   HEE. 


Drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  gui  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
Oh  !  woman's  heart  \\as  made 

For  mmstrel  liands  alone ; 
By  other  fingers  played, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 
Then  here  's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

Wliat  gold  could  never  buy. 

At  Beauty's  door  of  glass, 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  asked  her,  "  Which  might  pass  ? ' 

She  answered,  "  He  who  could.  " 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To  pass,  but  't  would  not  do ; 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought. 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through. 
So  here  's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

\Vhere  wealth  and  grandeur  shines, 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold-mines. 


Ull,  HAD   WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE.  141 

But,  oh,  the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere ; 
Its  native  home  's  above, 

Though  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh. 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

Moore. 


OH,  HAD   WE   SOME   BEIGHT   LITTLE   ISLE 
OF   OUK   OWN! 

On,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 

In  a  blue  summer  ocean  far  off  and  alone. 

Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still-blooming  bowers, 

And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowers ; 

Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 
With  so  fond  a  delay. 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day ; 
Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live. 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give. 

There  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime, 
We  should  love  as  they  loved  in  the  iirst  golden  time ; 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air. 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts,  and  make  all  summer  there. 
With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers. 
And  with  hope,  like  the  bee. 
Living  always  on  flowers. 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light, 
And  our  death  come  on  holy  and  calm  as  the  night. 

Moore. 


142  It  KM  OVAL    OF  SOME   FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 


THE   GIPSY   LADDIE. 

The  gipsies  cam  to  our  Laird's  yett, 
And,  oh,  but  they  sang  sae  sweetly  ! 
They  sang  sae  sweet,  sae  very  complete, 
That  doun  cam  the  fair  Ladye. 

She  cam  tripping  doun  the  stair 

Wi'  all  her  maids  before  her ; 

And  when  they  saw  her  weel-faur'd  face 

They  cast  the  glamour  o'er  her, 

"  Tak  frae  me  my  gay  mantle. 
And  bring  to  me  my  plaidie ; 
For  if  kith  and  kin  and  a'  had  sworn, 
I  'm  off  with  the  Gipsy  Laddie." 

And  when  her  Laird  cam  hame  at  e'en. 
And  speired  for  his  fair  Ladye, 
The  ane  she  cried,  the  tither  replied, 
"  She  's  off  with  the  Gipsy  Laddie." 

Anonymous. 

["  This  is  an  incorrect  version  of  the  ballad  ;  but  I  never  knew  any  other,  and  sang 
it  so."  —  Mrs.  Kemble.] 

This  poem  is  from  manuscript  in  Mrs.  Fanny  Kemble's  handwriting,  received  in 
Boston,  Nov.  3,  1883,  and  sung  by  her  after  a  skating-party  at  Milton,  about 
1853. 


ON  THE  EEMOVAL  OF  SOME  FAMILY  POETRAITS. 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well! 

Shadows,  adieu ! 
Living  friends  long  I  've  lost. 

Now  I  lose  you. 


REMOVAL    OF  SOME  FAMILY  PORTRAITS.         143 

Bitter  tears  many  I  've  shed, 

Ye  've  seen  tliem  flow ; 
Dreary  hours  many  I  've  sped, 

Full  well  ye  know. 

Yet  in  my  loneliness, 

Kindly,  methought, 
Still  ye  looked  down  on  me. 

Mocking  me  not 

With  light  speech  and  hollow  words, 

Grating  so  sore 
The  sad  heart,  with  many  ills 

Sick  to  the  core. 

Then,  if  my  clouded  skies 

Brightened  awhile. 
Seemed  your  soft,  serious  eyes 

Almost  to  smile. 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 

Shadows,  adieu ! 
Living  friends  long  I  've  lost, 

Now  I  lose  you. 

Taken  from  hearth  and  board, 

AVhen  all  were  gone, 
I  looked  up  at  you  and  felt 

Not  quite  alone. 

Not  quite  companionless, 

While  in  each  face 
Met  me  familiar 

The  stamp  of  my  race. 


144         REMOVAL    UF  SOME    FAMILY   PORTUAri'S. 

Tliine,  gentle  ancestress ! 

Dove-eyed  and  fair, 
Melting  in  sympathy 

Oft  for  my  care. 

Grim  Knight  and  stern-visaged  ! 

Yet  could  I  see 
(Smoothing  that  furrowed  face) 

Good-will  to  me. 

Bland  looks  w^ere  beaming 

Upon  me  I  knew, 
Fair  sir,  bonnie  lady, 

From  you,  and  from  you. 

Little  think  happy  ones, 

Heart-circled  round, 
How  fast  to  senseless  things 

Hearts  may  be  bound ; 

How,  w^hen  the  livmg  prop 's 

Mouldered  and  gone. 
Heart-strings,  low  trailing  left, 

Clasp  the  cold  stone. 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 

Shadows,  adieu ! 
Living  friends  long  I  've  lost, 

Now  I  lose  you. 

Often  wdien  spirit-vexed. 

Weary  and  worn. 
To  your  quiet  faces,  mute 

Friends,  would  I  turn. 


ItEMOVAL    OF  SOME  FAMILY  PORTRAITS.  145 

Soft  as  I  gazed  on  them, 

Soothing  as  bahn, 
Lulling  the  passion-storm, 

Stole  your  deep  calm. 

Till,  as  I  longer  looked. 

Surely,  methought. 
Ye  read  and  replied  to 

My  questioning  thought. 

"Daughter,"  ye  softly  said, 

"  Peace  to  thine  heart : 
We  too  —  yes,  daughter  !  —  have 

Been  as  thou  art ; 

"  Tossed  on  the  troubled  waves. 

Life's  stormy  sea ; 
Chance  and  change  manifold 

Province  like  thee. 

"  Hope-lifted,  doubt-depressed, 

Seeing  in  part, 
Tried,  troul)led,  tempted, 

Sustained  as  thou  art, 

"  Our  God  is  thy  God,  —  what  He 

Willeth  is  best ; 
Trust  him  as  we  trusted,  then 

Kest  as  we  rest." 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 

Shadows,  adieu  ! 
One  friend  abideth  still 
All  changes  through. 

Mrs.  Southet. 
10 


14G  TWO  KIXDS   OF  PIE  TV. 


TWO   KINDS   OF   PIETY. 

Tlie  following  lines  may  be  objected  to  by  some  for  a  seeming  in-cvercncc  of 
laiigaag.',  but  the  discerning  reader  will  see  that  they  are  far  from  irreverent  in 
jiurpose  and  spirit.  In  this  respect  they  remind  us  of  the  eccentiic  methods  l)y 
which  Rev.  Rowland  Hill  and  other  excellent  divines  have  sometimes  incuh-ated 
the  most  sacred  lessons  of  Scripture.  The  incident  on  which  they  are  founded  is 
thus  related  for  the  "New  York  Evening  Post"  :  "  .\  few  years  since,  a  powerful 
revival  of  religion  was  witnessed  at  Oldtown,  Maine.  Among  the  converts  was  an 
Indian  of  the  Penobscot  tribe.  Soon  after  his  conversion,  Peol  attended  a  prayer- 
meeting,  and  was  called  npon  to  "  tell  his  experience."  Not  exactly  understand- 
ing the  constniction  of  the  King's  English,  Peol  expressed  himself  as  follows : 
"  Oh,  glory,  me  feel  pious  like  hell  !  " 

The  hand  of  religion  is  potent  to  save, 

Its  value  no  mortal  can  prize ; 
It  leads  us  in  safety  clear  down  to  the  grave, 

Tlien  gives  us  a  pass  to  the  skies. 
But  since  the  grand  choice  in  the  garden  was  given, 

Smce  Adam  from  paradise  fell. 
Full  many  are  found  to  be  pious  like  heaven, 

While  many  are  "  pious  like  hell." 

I  once  was  an  orphan-boy,  mortgaged  and  leased. 

And  served  without  hope  of  a  fee. 
For  one  who  was  lending  the  Lord  what  she  fleeced 

From  the  girl  in  the  kitchen  and  me. 
'T  was  a  day  or  two  since  that  I  gazed  on  the  face 

Of  her,  the  once  IMademoiselle, 
And  thought,  though  she  bragged  of  "abounding  grace," 

That  she,  too,  was  "  pious  like  hell." 

But  tares  in  the  wheat,  and  the  counterfeit  coin. 
Should  rob  us  of  none  of  our  rest ; 


DOLCE   FAR   NIEXTE.  147 

Let  this  be  our  motto  while  journeying  on,  — 

"  (jrod  orders  all  things  for  the  best." 
And,  mind  you,  no  knowledge  to  mortal  is  given, 

V>y  which  that  frail  mortal  can  tell. 
Except  by  the  fruits,  who  is  pious  like  heaven. 

Or  as  Peol  was,  "  pious  like  hell." 

David  Barker. 


DOLCE   FAR   NIENTE. 

She  bends  above  me  like  a  night 

Deep-skied  and  tropic-starred ; 
Her  face  a  clime  of  peace  wherefrom 

All  sorrow  is  debarred. 
She  drops  above  me  like  a  spell 

All  potent  in  repose. 
While  from  her  mouth  the  kisses  fall 

Like  rose  leaves  from  a  rose. 

I  cannot  move  for  utter  bliss, 

Her  beauty  weighs  me  down  ; 
It  broods  about  me  like  a  sea. 

Wherein  I  dream  and  drown. 
The  water  wields  me  at  its  will, 

Along  with  all  sea  things. 
Hither  and  thither  swayed  and  sent 

In  endless  journeyings. 

O  rare  strange  face !  within  whose  round 
Glad  things  and  sad  things  meet,  — 

Sufficient  sweetness  yet  made  up 
Of  things  diversely  sweet,  — 


143  ST.  SENANUS  AND    THE  LADY. 

Your  beauty  bends  the  souls  of  men, 

As  a  wind  bends  the  wheat ; 
And  they  who  cannot  reach  your  hps 

Die  happy  at  your  feet. 

I  He  inert,  I  take  no  care 

For  better  or  for  worse  ; 
Her  beauty  bears  me  dizzily 

Safe  through  the  universe  ; 
One  moment  sunk  in  soundless  depths,  ' 

And  the  next  skyward  driven, 
The  buoyant  blossom  of  her  face 

Floats  me  as  high  as  heaven. 

Joseph  Bradford. 


ST.   SENANUS   AND   THE   LADY. 

ST.    SENANUS. 

Oh,  haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 
Unholy  bark,  ere  morning  smUe ; 
For  on  thy  deck,  though  dark  it  be, 

A  female  form  I  see. 
And  I  have  sworn  this  sainted  sod 
Shall  ne'er  by  woman's  feet  be  trod. 

THE    LADY. 

0  father  !  send,  not  hence  my  bark, 
Through  wintry  winds  and  billows  dark ; 

1  come  with  humble  heart  to  share 
Thy  morn  and  evening  prayer : 

Nor  mine  the  feet,  O  holy  saint. 
The  brightness  of  thy  sod  to  taint. 


I 


SHAN    VAN    VOCHT.  149 

The  lady's  prayer  Senanus  spurned ; 
The  winds  blew  fresh,  the  bark  returned ; 
But  legends  hint  that  had  the  maid 

Till  morning's  light  delayed, 
And  given  the  saint  one  rosy  smile, 
She  ne'er  had  left  his  lonely  isle. 

MoORK. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

Does  woman  always  love  where  she  is  loved  i 

The  heart  is  not  so  blunt  mechanical 

That  it  should  instant  throb  to  outward  touch. 

A  woman  who  is  woman  aptest  is 

To  ope  the  virgin  petals  of  her  love 

Where  a  true  warmth  wooes  for  their  fragrancy ; 

And  even  when  she  cannot  interchange. 

Will  with  a  sigh  distil  some  tenderness. 

George  H.  Calvert,  Boston  Transcrijit. 


SHAN   VAN   VOCHT. 

Oh,  the  French  are  on  the  say. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
The  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Oh,  the  French  are  in  the  bay. 

They  '11  be  here  without  delay. 

And  the  Orange  will  decay. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Oh,  the  French  are  in  the  bay, 
They  '11  be  here  by  break  of  day. 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


li>0  SILiy^   VAN  VOCHT. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Yocht ; 
Where  will  they  have  their  camp  i 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
On  the  Currach  of  Kildare ; 
The  boys  they  will  be  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
To  the  Currach  of  Kildare 
The  boys  they  vi^ill  repair, 
And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there. 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Then  what  will  the  yeoman  do  '. 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  will  the  yeoman  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  should  the  yeoman  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they  '11  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

What  should  the  yeoman  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue. 
And  swear  that  they  '11  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


And  what  color  will  they  w^ear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 


THE   CAVALIER'S   SONG.  151 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Yes,  Ireland  shall  be  free. 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty. 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Yes,  Ireland  shall  be  free. 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea  ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Anonymods. 


THE  CAVALIER'S   SONG. 

A  STEED  —  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene  ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse. 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde. 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum. 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

]>e  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 
And  oh,  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes, 

Whenas  their  war-cryes  swell, 


152  SONG   OF  THE   GALLEY. 

May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  Ijriglit, 
And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte  —  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amame ; 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

U'hen  the  sword-hilt  's  in  our  hand,  — 
Heart-whole  we  '11  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land. 
Let  piping  swaine  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye  ; 

Our  husmess  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die. 

William   Motherwell. 


SONG   OF   THE   GALLEY. 

Ye  mariners  of  Spain, 

Bend  strongly  on  your  oars, 
And  bring  my  love  again, 

For  he  lies  among  the  Moors. 

Ye  galleys  fairly  built. 
Like  castles  on  the  sea, 

Oh,  great  will  be  your  guilt 
If  ye  bring  him  not  to  me. 

Lift  up,  lift  up  your  sail, 
And  bend  upon  your  oars ; 

Oh,  lose  not  the  fair  gale, 

For  he  lies  anions  the  Moors. 


THE  MEETING   OF   THE   WATERS.  153 

It  is  a  narrow  strait, 

I  see  the  blue  hills  over ; 
Your  coming  I  '11  await, 

And  thank  you  for  my  lover. 

To  Mary  I  will  pray, 

While  ye  bend  upon  your  oars ; 

'T  will  be  a  blessed  day, 

If  ye  fetch  him  from  the  Moors. 

LOCKHART. 
Sung  by  F.  K.  and  Mrs.  A.  F.  W. 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   WATEES. 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet ; 
Oh,  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart ' 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'T  was  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill,  — 
(_)h,  no  !   it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  Nature  improve 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love  best. 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease. 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 

Moore. 
]\r.  P.  F. 


154  THE  LEGACY. 


THE   LEGACY. 

When  iu  death  I  shall  calm  recline, 

(Jli,  bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear  ! 
Tell  her  it  lived  upon  smiles  and  wine 

Of  the  brightest  hue  while  it  lingered  here. 
Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow, 

To  sully  a  heart  so  brilliant  and  light ; 
But  balmy  drops  of  the  red  grape  borrow, 

To  bathe  the  relic  from  morn  till  night. 

When  the  light  of  my  song  is  o'er, 

Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hall ; 
Hang  it  up  at  that  friendly  door 

Where  weary  travellers  love  to  call. 
Then  if  some  bard,  who  roams  forsaken, 

Bevive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along, 
Oh,  let  one  thought  of  its  master  waken 

Your  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song. 

Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erfiowing, 

To  grace  your  revel  when  I  'm  at  rest ; 
Never,  oh,  never  its  balm  bestowing 

On  lips  that  beauty  hath  seldom  blessed. 
But  when  some  warm,  devoted  lover 

To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim. 
Then,  then  my  spirit  around  shall  hover. 

And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him. 

Moore. 


IVRY.  155 


IVRY. 


A    SONG    OF   THE    HUGUENOTS. 


Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are, 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  0  pleasant  land 

of  France  ! 
And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Eochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters ; 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy. 
For  cold  and  stiff'  and  still  they  are  who  wrought  thy  walls 

annoy. 
Hurrah,  hurrah !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 


Right  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France 

to-day, 
And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey ; 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight. 
And  the  good  Lord  of  Eosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white  — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high ;  unfurl  it  wide,  that  all  the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought  his 

church  such  woe. 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest  point 

of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 


15G  THE   MINSTREL   BOY. 

llo,  maidens  of  Vienna  !  ho,  matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall 
return. 

llo,  Philip!  send  for  charity  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's 
souls. 

Ho,   gallant   nobles    of   the  league !  look    that   your   arms   be 
bright ; 

Ho,    burghers    of   Sahit  Cienevieve !  keep  watch  and  ward  to- 
night. 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the 
slave, 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are. 

And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

Macau  LAY. 


THE   MINSTEEL   BOY. 

The  Minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone. 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you  '11  find  him ; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"  Land  of  song,"  said  the  warrior  bard, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee. 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard. 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee." 

The  Minstrel  fell,  —  but  the  foeman's  chain 
Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under ; 

The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 
For  he  tore  its  cords  asunder, 


77/ A'    LAY   or   ELEXA. 

And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  brave  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery." 


Moore. 


THE   LAY   OF   ELENA. 

He  asked  me  had  I  yet  forgot 

The  mountains  of  my  native  land ; 

I  sought  an  answer,  but  had  not 
The  words  at  my  command. 

They  would  not  come,  and  it  was  better  so ; 

For  had  I  uttered  aught,  my  tears,  I  know, 

Had  started  at  the  word  as  free  to  flow. 

But  I  can  answer  when  there  's  none  that  liears ; 
And  now,  if  I  should  weep,  none  sees  my  tears ; 
And  in  my  soul  the  voice  is  rising  strong 
That  speaks  in  solitude,  —  the  voice  of  song. 

Yes,  I  remember  well 

The  land  of  many  hues, 
Whose  charms  what  praise  can  tell. 

Whose  praise  what  heart  refuse  ? 
Sublime,  but  neither  bleak  nor  bare 
Nor  misty,  are  the  mountains  there,  — 
Softly  sublime,  profusely  fair. 
Up  to  their  summits  clothed  in  green, 
And  fruitful  as  the  vales  between. 
They  lightly  rise 
And  scale  the  skies, 


158  THE    LAY   OF  KLEXA. 

And  groves  and  gardens  still  abound. 
For  where  no  shoot 
Could  else  take  root, 
The  peaks  are  shelved  and  terraced  round. 
Earthward  appear  in  mingled  growth 

The  mulberry  and  maize  ;  above, 
The  trellised  vine  extends  to  both 

The  leafy  shade  they  love. 
Looks  out  the  white-walled  cottage  here, 
The  lowly  chapel  rises  near  ; 
Far  down  the  foot  must  roam  to  reach 
The  lovely  lake  and  bending  beech, 
Whilst  chestnut  green  and  olive  gray 
Checker  the  steep  and  winding  way. 

A  bark  is  launched  on  Como's  lake, 

A  maiden  sits  abaft ; 
A  little  sail  is  loosed  to  take 

The  night  wind's  breath,  and  waft 
The  maiden  and  her  bark  away, 
Across  the  lake  and  up  the  bay. 
And  what  doth  there  that  lady  fair. 

Upon  the  wavelet  tossed  ? 
Before  her  shines  the  evening  star, 
Behind  her  in  the  woods  afar 

The  castle  lights  are  lost. 
What  doth  she  there  ?     The  evening  air 
Lifts  her  locks,  and  her  neck  is  bare  ; 
And  the  dews  that  now  are  falling  fast 
May  work  her  harm,  or  a  rougher  blast 

May  come  from  yonder  cloud,  — 
And  that  her  bark  might  scarce  sustain. 
So  slightly  built,  — and  why  remain  ? 

And  would  she  be  allowed 


THE   LAY  OF  ELENA.  159 

To  brave  the  wind  and  sit  in  the  dew 

At  night  on  the  lake,  if  her  mother  knew  '. 

Her  mother,  sixteen  years  before. 

The  burden  of  the  baby  bore ; 

And  though  lirought  forth  in  joy,  the  day 

So  joyful,  she  was  wont  to  say. 

In  taking  count  of  after  years, 

Gave  birth  to  fewer  hopes  than  fears. 

For  seldom  smiled 

The  serious  child ; 
And  as  she  passed  from  childhood,  grew 
More  far-between  those  smiles  and  few, 

More  sad  and  wild. 
And  though  she  loved  her  father  well, 

And  though  she  loved  her  mother  more, 
Upon  her  heart  a  sorrow  fell 
And  sapped  it  to  the  core. 
And  in  her  father's  castle  nought 
She  ever  found  of  what  she  sought. 
And  all  her  pleasure  was  to  roam 
Among  the  mountains  far  from  home, 
And  through  thick  woods,  and  wheresoe'er 
She  saddest  felt  to  sojourn  there ; 
And,  oh !  she  loved  to  linger  afloat 
On  the  lonely  lake  in  the  little  boat. 
It  was  not  for  the  forms,  —  though  fair, 
Though  grand  they  were  beyond  compare, — 
It  was  not  only  for  the  forms 
Of  hills  in  sunshine  or  in  storms. 
Or  only  unrestrained  to  look 
On  wood  and  lake,  that  she  forsook, 

By  day  or  night, 
Her  home,  and  far 


160  THE    VALE   OF  CASHMERE. 

Wandered  by  light 
Of  sun  or  star,  — 
It  was  to  feel  her  fancy  free, 

Free  in  a  world  without  an  end. 
With  ears  to  hear,  and  eyes  to  see, 

And  heart  to  apprehend  ; 
It  was  to  leave  the  earth  behind. 
And  rove  with  liberated  mind. 
As  fancy  led,  or  choice,  or  chance, 
Through  'wildered  regions  of  romance. 


Henry  Taylor,  Phili})  Van  Artevelde. 


THE   VALE   OF   CASHMEEE. 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 

With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave, 
Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 

As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their  wave? 
Oh,  to  see  it  at  sunset,  when  warm  o'er  the  lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws. 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering  to  .take 

A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes ; 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming  half  shown, 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 

Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Here  the  IMagian  his  urn  full  of  perfume  is  swinging, 

And  here  at  the  altar  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Eound  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is  ringing. 

Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight,  when  mellowly  shines 

The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines; 


THE    VALE   OF   CASHMERE.  161 

When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hyuin  from  the  Isle  of  Chenars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool,  shining  walks  where  the  young  people  meet. 

])ut  the  gentlest  of  all  are  those  sounds,  full  of  feelina", 

That  soft  from  the  lute  of  some  lover  are  stealing,  — 

Some  lover  who  knows  all  the  heart-touching  power 

Of  a  lute  and  a  sigh  in  this  magical  hour. 

Oh,  best  of  delights  as  it  everywhere  is 

To  be  near  the  loved  one,  what  a  rapture  is  his 

Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  may  glide 

O'er  the  Lake  of  Cashmere,  with  that  one  by  his  side ! 

If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear. 

Think,  think  what  a  heaven  she  must  make  of  Cashmere. 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar, 

When  from  power  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of  war 

He  flew  to  that  valley,  forgetting  them  all 

With  the  Light  of  the  Harem,  his  young  Nourmahal ; 

When  free  and  uncrowned  as  the  conqueror  roved 

By  the  banks  of  that  lake,  with  his  only  beloved. 

He  saw,  in  the  ^vreaths  she  would  playfully  snatch 

From  the  hedges,  a  glory  his  crown  could  not  match. 

And  preferred  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet  that  curled 

Down  her  ex(|uisite  neck  to  the  throne  of  the  world. 

There 's  a  beauty  forever  unchangingly  bright. 
Like  the  long,  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer  day's  light ; 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadows  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  was  not  the  l)eauty  —  oh,  nothing  like  this  — 
That  to  young  Xourmahal  gave  such  magic  of  bliss ; 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 

11 


162  BEFORE    THE   BATTLE. 

Like  the  light  upon  autuinu's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the  eyes, 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  heaven  in  his  dreams. 

When  pensive,  it  seemed  as  if  that  very  grace. 

That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face; 

And  when  angry,  —  for  e'en  in  the  tranquillest  climes 

Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  flowers  sometimes, — 

The  short,  passing  anger  but  seemed  to  awaken 

New  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest  when  shaken. 

If  tenderness  touched  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 

At  once  took  a  darker,  a  heavehlier  dye. 

From  the  depths  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  revealings 

From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light  of  her  feelings. 

Then  her  mirth  —  oh,  't  was  sportive  as  ever  took  wing 

From  the  heart  with  a  burst,  like  the  wild-bird  in  spring. 

Moore,  Light  of  the  Llarcm. 


BEFOKE   THE   BATTLE. 

By  the  hope  within  us  springing. 

Herald  of  to-morrow's  strife ; 
By  that  sun  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life, — 
Oh,  remember  life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free ! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  in  his  grave, 
'Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears. 

Moore. 


IT  IS    rillS,   IT  IS   THIS.  163 


FLY   TO   THE   DESERT. 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee  ; 
But,  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without? 

Our  rocks  are  rough  ;  but  smiling  there 
The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness. 

Our  sands  are  bare ;  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come,  —  thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree  ; 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

Moore,  Light  of  the  Harem. 

IT   IS   THIS,   IT   IS   THIS. 

There  's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told, 
When  two,  that  are  linked  in  one  heavenly  tie. 

With  heart  never  changing,  and  brow  never  cold. 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die. 

One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 

Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering  bliss ; 

And,  oh,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 

It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

Moore,  Light  of  the  Hanm. 


164  MAN'S  MORTALITY. 


THE   FOETUNATE   LAND. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  hangs  the  citron-flower. 
Where  gleams  the  golden  orange  in  the  bower. 
Where  gentle  zephyrs  in  the  blue  sky  play, 
And  myrtles  creep  beneath  the  towering  bay  ? 

Know'st  thou,  indeed  ? 

Oh,  there,  oh,  there, 
Would  I  with  thee,  my  best  beloved,  speed. 

Know'st  thou  the  house  that  rests  on  columns  tall. 
Its  gay  saloon,  its  glittering  banquet-hall, 
Where  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on  me  ? 
Wliat  have  they  done,  thou  hapless  child,  to  thee  ? 

Know'st  thou,  indeed  ? 

Oh,  there,  oh,  there. 
Would  I  with  thee,  my  own  kind  guardian,  speed. 

Know'st  thou  the  mount,  and  its  cloud-crested  steep, 
Where  poring  mules  the  misty  pathway  keep, 
In  caves  the  dragon  hides  her  ancient  brood, 
Down  leaps  the  rock,  and  over  it  the  flood  ? 

Know'st  thou,  indeed  ? 

Oh,  there,  oh,  there. 
Our  journey  tends  ;  my  father,  let  us  speed. 


Goethe. 


MAN'S   MOETALITY. 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 
Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 
Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 


GONE.  165 

Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade, 
Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had,  — 
E'en  such  is  man,  whose  thread  is  spun, 
Di*awn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  done. 
The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth ; 
The  flower  fades,  the  morning  liasteth ; 
The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies  ; 
The  gourd  consumes,  and  man  he  dies. 

Like  to  the  grass  that 's  newly  sprung, 
Or  like  a  tale  that 's  new  begun, 
Or  like  the  bird  that 's  here  to-day, 
Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 
Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span. 
Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan,  — 
E'en  such  is  man,  who  lives  by  breath, 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. 
The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended  ; 
The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew  's  ascended ; 
The  hour  is  short,  the  span  is  long; 
The  swan  's  near  death,  man's  life  is  done. 

Simon  Wastell. 


GONE. 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given  ; 
And  glows  once  more  with  angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  heaven. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 
The  changing  of  her  spliere. 

To  give  to  heaven  a  shining  one, 
Who  walked  an  an"el  here. 


166  CONE. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  ou  us  like  the  dew ; 
And  good  thoughts,  wliere  her  footsteps  pressed, 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look  ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book  : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move  ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm ; 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 

And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light ; 
We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 

Once  more  her  sweet  "  Good-night !" 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 

Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 
A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 

Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 

One  thought  hath  reconcih'd  ; 
That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 

Hath  taken  home  His  child. 

Fold  her,  0  Father  !  in  thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 


.1    HEALTH.  167 

Still  let  lier  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 

And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here. 

Distrusted  all  her  powers, 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well  beloved  of  ours. 

Whittier. 


A   HEALTH. 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  np 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon  ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds. 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are  they. 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows. 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 


168  SONG   OF   THE   SPIRIT  OF  DAWN. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ; 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon : 
Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  fi^ame. 
That  hfe  might  all  be  poetry. 

And  weariness  a  name. 

Edward  Coate  Pixkxey. 


SONG    OF   THE   SPIEIT   OF   DAWN. 

Now  on  their  couch  of  rest 

]\Iortals  are  sleeping, 
While  in  dark  dewy  nest 

Flowerets  are  weeping ; 
Ere  the  last  star  of  night 

Fades  in  the  fountain, 
My  finger  of  rosy  light 

Touches  the  mountain. 

Far  on  his  filmy  wing 

Twilight  is  wending, 
Shadows  encompassing, 

Terrors  attending ; 


SWORD   CHANT   OF    THOR STEIN  RAUDL  169 

While  my  foot's  fiery  print, 

Up  my  path  showing, 
Gleams  with  celestial  tint 

Brilliantly  glowing. 

Now  from  my  pinions  fair 

Freshness  is  streaming. 
And  from  my  yellow  hair 

Glories  are  gleaming. 
Nature,  with  pure  delight, 

Hails  my  returning, 
And  Sol  from  his  chamber  bright 

Crowns  the  young  morning. 

Mrs.  Kemble. 


THE  SWORD  CHANT   OF   THOESTEIN   RAUDL 

'T  IS  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight 

O'er  mountain  and  mere  ; 
'T  is  not  the  fleet  hound's  course 

Tracking  the  deer ; 
'T  is  not  the  light  hoof -print 

Of  black  steed  or  gray. 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop 

A  long  summer's  day,  — 
Which  mete  forth  the  Lordships 
I  challenge  as  mine  ; 
Ha,  ha  !  't  is  the  good  brand 
I  clutch  in  my  strong  hand, 
That  can  their  broad  marches 

And  numbers  define. 
Land-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 


170  SWORD   CHANT   OF   TIJOIiSTEIN  RALDT. 

Dull  builders  of  houses, 

Base  tillers  of  earth, 
Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships 

I  owned  at  my  birth  ; 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute 

When  I  point  with  my  sword 
East,  west,  north,  and  south. 

Shouting,  "  There  am  I  Lord." 
Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower. 

Hill,  valley,  and  stream, 
Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway 
In  the  fierce  battle-fray. 
When  the  star  that  rules  fate  is 

This  falchion's  red  gleam. 
Might-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

I  've  heard  great  harps  sounding 

In  brave  bower  and  hall, 
I  've  drank  the  sweet  music 

That  bright  lips  let  fall, 
I  've  hunted  in  greenwood 

And  heard  small  birds  sing  ; 
But  away  with  this  idle 

And  cold  jargoning : 
The  music  I  love,  is 

The  shout  of  the  brave. 
The  yell  of  the  dying, 
The  scream  of  the  Hying, 
When  this  arm  wields  death's  sickle, 

And  garners  the  grave. 
Joy-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

Far  isles  of  the  ocean 

Thy  lightning  have  known. 


THE  SWORD  CHANT  OF  TIIORSTEIX  RAUDI.       171 

Aud  wide  o'er  the  mainland 

Thy  horrors  have  shown. 
Great  sword  of  my  fatlier, 

Stern  joy  of  his  hand, 
Thou  hast  carved  liis  name  deep  on 

The  stranger's  red  strand, 
And  won  him  the  glory 

Of  undying  song. 
Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 
Sharp  piercer  of  broad  breasts, 
Grim  slayer  of  heroes, 

And  scourge  of  the  strong  ! 
Fame-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

In  a  love  more  abiding 

Than  that  the  heart  knows 
For  maiden  more  lovely 

Than  summer's  first  rose, 
My  heart 's  knit  to  thine. 

And  lives  but  for  thee ; 
In  dreamings  of  gladness. 

Thou  'rt  dancing  with  me 
Brave  measures  of  madness 

In  some  battle-field. 
Where  armor  is  ringing, 
And  noble  blood  springing, 
And  cloven,  yawn  helmet, 

Stout  hauberk  and  shield. 
Death-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

When  the  path  of  our  glory 

Is  shadowed  in  death, 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber 

Below  the  brown  heath ; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom, 


17S  THE    BROTHERS. 


And  with  it  decay,  — 
While  harps  shall  be  ringing, 
And  scalds  shall  be  sinking, 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in 

Our  old  fearless  day. 
Song-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

William  Motherwell. 


THE    BEOTHEES. 

We  are  but  two,  —  the  others  sleep 
Through  Death's  untroubled  night ; 

We  are  but  two,  —  oh,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright  I 

Heart  leaps  to  heart,  —  the  sacred  flood 

That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 
That  good  old  man,  —  his  honest  blood 

Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  locked,  — 

Long  be  her  love  repaid  ! 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rocked, 

Eound  the  same  hearth  we  played. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  woe  ; 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

We  are  but  two,  —  be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 

Charles   Sprague. 


KEAUyy  AT   ^EVJ'LV  J'JNl£S.  173 


THEKE'S   A   BOWER   OF   EOSES. 

There  's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 

And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day  long ; 
111  the  time  of  my  childhood  't  was  like  a  sweet  dream, 

To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 
That  bower  and  its  music  I  never  forget, 

But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 
T  think  —  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet  ? 

Are  the  roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemeer  ? 

No,  —  the  roses  soon  withered  that  hung  o'er  the  wave  ; 

But  some  blossoms  were  gathered,  while  freshly  they  shone, 
And  a  dew  was  distilled  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 

All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone. 
Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 

An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year  ; 
Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  't  was  then  to  my  eyes. 

Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Bendemeer. 

Moore,  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan. 

A  favorite  of  M.  P.  F.    I  remember  it  the  day  the  "  Lueonia  "  sailed  from  Maca" 
RoAUS,  with  a  gale  of  wind  blowing,  and  I  walking  the  deck. 


KEARNY    AT    SEVEN    PINES. 

So  that  soldierly  legend  is  still  on  its  journey,  — 
That  story  of  Kearny  who  knew  not  to  yield  ! 

'T  was  the  day  when  with  Jameson,  fierce  Berry,  and  liirncy 
Against  twenty  thousand  he  rallied  the  field. 


174  KEARNY  AT  SEVEN   PINES. 

Where  the  red  volleys  poured,  where  the  clamor  rose  highest, 
Where  the  dead  lay  in   clumps  through  the  dwarf  oak  and 
pine, 

Where  the  aim  from  the  thicket  was  surest  and  nighest, 
No  charge  like  Phil  Kearny's  along  the  whole  line. 

When  the  battle  went  ill,  and  the  bravest  were  solemn, 

Near  the  dark  Seven  Pines,  where  we  still  held  our  ground, 
He  rode  down  the  length  of  the  withering  column, 

And  his  heart  at  our  war-cry  leapt  up  with  a  bound  ; 
He  snuffed,  like  his  charger,  the  wind  of  the  powder. 

His  sword  waved  us  on,  and  we  answered  the  sign : 
Loud  our  cheers  as  we  rushed,  but  his  laugh  rang  the  louder, 

"There's  the  devil's  own  fun,  boys,  along  the  whole  line  !" 

How  he  strode  his  brown  steed  !   How  we  saw  his  blade  brighten 

In  the  one  hand  still  left,  —  and  the  reins  in  his  teeth ! 
He  laughed  like  a  boy  when  the  holidays  heighten, 

But  a  soldier's  glance  shot  from  his  vizor  beneath. 
Up  came  the  reserves  to  the  medley  inferrjal. 

Asking  where  to  go  in  —  through  the  clearing  or  pine  ? 
"  Oh,  anywhere  !     Forward  !     'T  is  all  the  same,  Colonel, 

You  '11  find  lovely  fighting  along  the  whole  line  !  " 

Oh,  evil  the  black  shroud  of  night  at  Chantilly, 

That  hid  him  from  sight  of  his  brave  men  and  tried ! 
Foul,  foul  sped  the  bullet  that  clipped  the  white  lily. 

The  flower  of  our  knighthood,  the  whole  army's  pride ! 
Yet  we  dream  that  he  still —  in  that  shadowy  region 

Where  the  dead  form  their   ranks  at  the  wan   drummer's 
sign  —  § 

Rides  on,  as  of  old,  down  the  length  of  his  legion. 

And  the  word  is  still  Forward  !  along  the  wdiole  line. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


I 


rilE    CONFLICT.  175 


THE  CONFLICT. 


Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conflict  set, 

And  risen  again,  and  found  them  grappling  yet ; 

While  streams  of  carnage,  in  his  noontide  blaze, 

Smoke  up  to  heaven  —  hot  as  that  crimson  haze. 

By  which  the  prostrate  caravan  is  awed, 

In  the  red  Desert,  wlien  the  wind  's  abroad. 

"  On,  Swords  of  God  ! "  the  panting  Caliph  calls,  — 

"  Thrones  for  the  living,  heaven  for  him  who  falls." 

"  On,  brave  avengers,  on,"  Mokanna  cries, 

"And  Eblis  blast  the  recreant  slave  that  flies !" 

Now  comes  the  brunt,  the  crisis  of  the  day ; 

They  clash,  they  strive,  the  Caliph's  troops  give  way. 

Mokanna's  self  plucks  the  black  banner  down. 

And  now  the  Orient  world's  imperial  crown 

Is  just  within  his  grasp,  when,  hark,  that  shout ! 

Some  hand  hath  checked  the  flying  Moslems'  rout, 

And  now  they  turn,  they  rally,  —  at  their  head 

A  warrior  (like  those  angel  youths,  who  led. 

In  glorious  panoply  of  heaven's  own  mail, 

The  champions  of  the  Faith  through  Beder's  vale). 

Bold  as  if  gifted  with  ten  thousand  lives. 

Turns  on  the  fierce  pursuers'  blades,  and  drives 

At  once  the  multitudinous  torrent  back, 

While  hope  and  courage  kindle  in  his  track, 

And  at  each  step  his  bloody  falchion  makes 

Terrible  vistas  through  which  victory  breaks. 

In  vain  ]\Iokanna,  'midst  the  general  flight. 

Stands,  like  the  red  moon  on  some  stormy  night, 

Among  the  fugitive  clouds  that,  hurrying  by, 

Leave  only  her  unshaken  in  the  sky. 


176  /  .S'Jir  FROM   THE  BEACH. 

In  vain  he  yells  las  desperate  curses  out, 
Deals  death  promiscuously  to  all  about, 
To  foes  that  charge  and  coward  friends  that  fly. 
And  seems  of  all  the  great  Arch-enemy. 
The  panic  spreads  —  "A  miracle,"  throughout 
The  Moslem  ranks,  "  a  miracle  ! "  they  shout. 
All  gazing  on  that  youth,  whose  coming  seems 
A  light,  a  glory,  such  as  breaks  in  dreams ; 
And  every  sword,  true  as  o'er  billows  dim 
The  needle  tracks  the  loadstar,  following  him. 

Eight  towards  Mokanna  now  he  cleaves  his  path. 
Impatient  cleaves,  as  though  the  bolt  of  wrath 
He  bears  from  heaven  withheld  its  awful  burst 
From  weaker  heads,  and  souls  but  half-way  curst. 
To  break  o'er  him,  the  mightiest  and  the  worst ! 
But  vain  his  speed,  —  though,  in  that  hour  of  blood, 
Had  all  God's  seraphs  round  ]\Iokanna  stood. 
With  swords  of  fire,  ready  like  fate  to  fall, 
Mokanna' s  soul  would  have  defied  them  all ; 
Yet  now  the  rush  of  fugitives,  too  strong 
For  human  force,  hurries  even  him  along ; 
In  vain  he  struggles  'mid  the  wedged  array 
Of  flying  thousands,  —  he  is  borne  away. 

Moore,  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khomssru 


I   SAW   FROM   THE   BEACH. 

I  SAW  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on. 

I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining  ; 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 


THE    TIME  I'VE  LOST  IX    WOOfXG.  IT 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  hfe's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known  ; 

Eacli  wave,  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us. 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Xe'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night;  — 

(iive  me  back,  give  me  back,  the  wild  freshness  of  Morning; 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best  light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning, 
When  passion  first  waked  a  new  life  through  his  frame, 

And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burning. 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame  ? 


MooRi: 


S VI II a;  h\  Mrs.  Long. 


THE  TIME   I'VE   LOST   IN   WOOINd 

The  time  I  've  lost  in  wooing. 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes. 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorned  the  lore  she  brought  me. 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly  's  all  they  've  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted. 

Like  him  the  sprite 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  slen  that 's  haunted. 


178  SOME  LOVE    TO  ROAM. 

Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me  ; 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turned  away, 
Oh,  winds  could  not  outrun  me ! 

And  are  those  follies  going  ? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  hrilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 
No,  —  vain,  alas  !  the  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever ; 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 

Moore. 

SOME   LOVE   TO   EOAM. 

Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam. 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free ; 
But  a  chosen  hand  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free,  — 
But  a  chosen  hand  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 
When  morning  beams,  o'er  the  mountain  stream? 

Oh,  merrily  forth  we  go, 
To  follow  the  stag  to  his  slippery  crag, 

And  to  chase  the  bounding  roe,  — 
To  follow  the  stag  to  his  slippery  crag. 

And  to  chase  the  bounding  roe. 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 


HORATIUS    COCLES.  179 

Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam, 

Where  the  shrill  winds  wliistle  free ; 
But  a  chosen  band  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 

The  deer  we  mark  through  the  forest  dark, 

And  the  prowling  wolf  we  track ; 
And  for  right  good  cheer,  in  the  wild  woods  here, 

Oh,  why  should  a  hunter  lack  ? 
For  with  steady  aim  at  the  bounding  game. 

And  hearts  that  fear  no  foe. 
To  the  darksome  glade,  in  the  forest  shade. 

Oh,  merrily  forth  we  go  ! 

Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 
Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam, 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free  ; 
But  a  chosen  band  in  a  mountain  land. 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 

Charlks  Mackay. 
A  favorite  of  W.  H.  H.,  Naushon. 


HORATIUS   COCLES. 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  the  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers. 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 


180     BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL   THOSE  ENDEARING,  ETC. 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  hehnet's  plume  ; 
When  the  gocxlwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Uoes  tlashing  through  the  loom,  — 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

Macaulay. 


BELIEVE   ME,   IF  ALL   THOSE   ENDEAEINO 
YOUNG   CHARMS. 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charais. 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms. 

Like  fairy -gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art. 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own. 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear ; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 

MOOKE. 


THE  PERI  AT   THE   GATE.  LSI 


THE   PERI   AT  THE   GATE* 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate ; 
And  as  she  listened  to  the  springs 

Of  life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing. 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place. 

"How  happj,"  exclaimed  this  child  of  air, 
"Are  the  holy  spirits  who  wander  there, 

'Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea. 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me, 

One  blossom  of  heaven  outblooms  them  all 
Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  isle  reflected  clear. 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray,  — 
Yet,  oh,  't  is  only  the  blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  heaven  outshine  them  all. 

"  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall  ; 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres. 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years,  — 

One  minute  of  heaven  is  worth  them  all." 

MooRK,  Paradise  and  the  Feri. 


ISli  JENNY  KISSED  ME. 


IIICH  AND   RAEE  WERE   THE   GEMS   SHE   WORE 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 
And  a  bright  gold  rmg  on  her  wand  she  bore ; 
But,  oh,  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 
Her  sparkUng  gems  or  snow-white  wand. 

"  Lady,  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 

So  lone  and  lovely,  through  this  bleak  way  ? 

Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold?'' 

"  Sir  Knight,  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm. 

No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm ; 

For,  though  they  love  women  and  golden  store, 

Sir  Knight,  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more." 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 
In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  green  isle  ; 
And  blest  forever  is  she  who  rehed 
Upon  Erin's  honor  and  Erm's  pride. 


MOORK. 


Sung  by  Mrs.  Long. 


JENNY   KISSED   ME. 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 

Time,  you  thief !  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in ! 

Say  I  'ra  weary,  say  I  'm  sad ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me ; 

Say  I  'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 
Jenny  kissed  me ! 


Leioh  Hunt. 


NURSERY  RHYME.  183 

LUTZOW'S   WILD   HUNT. 

What  gleams  from  you  wood  in  the  bright  sunshine? 

Hark  !  nearer  and  nearer  't  is  sounding. 
It  hurries  along,  black  line  upon  line  ; 
And  the  shrill-voiced  horns  in  the  wild  chase  join, 

The  soul  with  dark  horror  confounding. 
And  if  the  wild  troopers'  name  you  would  know, 
'T  is  Lutzow's  wild  Jiigers,  —  a-hunting  they  go  ! 

From  hill  to  hill  through  the  dark  wood  they  hie, 

And  warrior  to  warrior  is  calling  ; 
Behind  the  thick  bushes  in  ambush  they  lie. 
The  ritle  is  heard,  and  the  loud  war-cry  ; 

In  rows  the  Frank  minions  are  falling ! 
And  if  the  black  riders'  name  you  would  know, 
'Tis  Lutzow's  wild  Jagers,  —  a-huutiug  they  go! 


NUPtSERY    RHYME. 

When  the  Moorish  cymbals  clash  by  day, 

When  the  brazen  trumpets  shrilly  play. 
The  slave  in  vain  shall  then  complain 

Of  tyranny  and  knavery. 
Would  you  know  tlie  time  to  go 

And  slyly  slip  from  slavery  ? 

When  the  hollow  drum  has  beat  to  bed, 

When  the  little  fifer  hangs  his  head, 
Still  and  mute  the  Moorish  tiute, 

While  nodding  guards  watch  wearily, 
Then  shall  we,  from  prison  free, 

March  forth  by  moonlight  cheerily. 

George  Colman,  The  Mountaineers. 
179n. 


184  THE  LIGHTHOUSE. 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE. 


The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  my  eye 

Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it ; 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure -arched  sky 

Looked  pure  as  the  spirit  that  made  it : 
The  murmur  rose  soft  as  I  silently  gazed 

On  the  shadowy  waves'  playful  motion, 
From  the  dim,  distant  hill,  till  the  lighthouse  fire  blazed 

Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 

Was  heard  in  his  wildly  breathed  numbers ; 
The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest, 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers : 
One  moment  I  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle  slope, — 

All  hushed  was  the  billow's  commotion, — 
And  thought  that  the  lighthouse  looked  lovely  as  hope, 

That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar. 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 
Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow : 
In  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies, 

And  death  stills  the  heart's  last  emotion, 
Oh,  then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise, 

Like  a  star  on  eternity's  ocean. 

Paul  Moon  Jajiks. 
A  great  favorite  of  my  mother. 


SHE    WAS  A   PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT.  18; 


SHE  WAS  A   PHANTOM   OF  DELIGHT. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament : 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn : 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay. 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions,  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet : 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ! 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death  : 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will. 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill : 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

Wordsworth. 


186  SONG, 


LINES  WRITTEN   THE   NIGHT   BEFOliK   ii IS 
EXECUTION. 

E  'en  such  is  time,  which  takes  on  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have. 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Which  m  the  dark  and  silent  grave,  • 

When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days ; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust. 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

Sir  Walter  Haleioh. 


SONG. 

When  you  mournfully  rivet  your  tear-laden  eyes, 
That  have  seen  the  last  sunset  of  hope  pass  away, 

On  some  bright  orb  that  seems,  through  the  still,  sapphire  skies. 
In  beauty  and  splendor  to  roll  on  its  way. 

Oh,  remember  this  earth,  if  beheld  from  afar. 

Appears  wrapt  in  a  halo  as  soft  and  as  bright 
As  the  pure  silver  radiance  enshrining  yon  star. 

Where  your  spirit  is  eagerly  soaring  to-night. 

And  at  this  very  midnight,  perhaps,  some  poor  heart 
That  is  aching  or  breaking  in  that  distant  sphere 

Gazes  down  on  this  dark  world,  and  longs  to  depart 
From  its  own  dismal  home  to  a  happier  one  here. 

Mrs.  Ke.mble. 


OH,   EVER    THUS.  LS? 


FAITH. 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 

Than  doubt  one  heart  that,  if  believed, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  belicN'ing. 

Oil,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast 

The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth ! 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 

Mrs.  Kemble. 


OH,   EVER  THUS. 

Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I  've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay  ! 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  liower. 

But  't  was  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye. 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die. 
Now,  too,  —  the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew,  — 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine,  — 

Oh,  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too  ? 
Yet  go  !  on  peril's  brink  we  meet ; 

Those  frightful  rocks,  that  treacherous  sea 
No,  never  come  again,  —  though  sweet, 

Though  heaven,  it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
Farewell !  and  blessings  on  thy  way. 


188  EPITAPH  ON   TIMOTHY  JOHN. 

Where'er  thou  go'st,  beloved  stranger ! 
Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me  and  in  danger. 

]\IooRE,  The  Fire-Worshippers. 

HYMN   TO   THE   VIEGIN. 

Ave  Sanctissima, 
'T  is  nightfall  on  the  sea ; 

Ora  pro  nobis, 
Our  souls  we  lift  to  thee ; 
Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 
Far  o'er  the  water  spread ; 
Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh, 
Thine  too  hath  bled. 

Thou  that  hast  looked  on  death, 
Aid  us  when  death  is  near ; 
Whisper  of  heaven  to  faith, 
Sweet  Mother,  hear! 

Ora  pro  nobis. 
The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep; 

Ora,  Mater,  ora, 
Star  of  the  deep. 

Mrs.  Hemans,  The  Forest  Sanctuary. 

EPITAPH   ON   TIMOTHY   JOHN. 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Timothy  John, 
Who  di^d  in  the  year  one  thousand  and  one. 
Stranger,  pray  for  the  soul  of  Timothy  John, 
Or  let  it  alone,  —  't  is  all  one  to  Timothy  John, 
Wlio  died  in  the  year  one  thousand  and  one. 

Anonymous. 
M.'s  philosophy. 


THE    GRAVE    OF  BONAPARTE.  18 J 


LINES   FOR   MUSIC. 

0  SUNNY  Love ! 
Crowned  with  fresh-flowering  May, 

Breath  like  the  Indian  clove, 
Eyes  like  the  dawn  of  day ; 

O  sunny  Love  ! 

0  fatal  Love  ! 
Thy  wreath  is  nightshade  all, 
With  gloomy  cypress  wove ; 
Thy  kiss  is  bitter  gall, 
0  fatal  Love ! 

Mrs.  Kemble. 


THE   GRAVE   OF   BONAPARTE. 

On  a  lone  barren  isle  where  the  wide-rolling  billow 

Assails  the  stern  rock  and  the  wild  tempests  rave, 
A  hero  lies  still  while  the  dew-drooping  willow 

Like  fond  weeping  mourner  bends  over  his  grave. 
The  lightnings  may  flash  and  the  loud  thunders  rattle, 

He  heeds  not,  he  hears  not,  he  's  free  from  all  pain. 
He  sleeps  his  last  sleep,  he  has  fought  his  last  battle ; 

No  sound  can  awake  him  to  glory  again. 

Oh  !  Shade  of  tlie  mighty,  where  now  are  the  legions 
That  rushed  but  to  conquer  when  thou  led'st  them  on  ? 

Alas !  they  have  perished  in  far  hilly  regions, 
And  all  save  the  fame  of  their  triumph  is  gone. 


190  CADYOW  CASTLE. 

The  trumpet  may  sound  and  the  loud  cannon  rattle, 

They  heed  not,  they  hear  not,  they  're  free  from  all  pain, 
Tliey  sleep  their  last  sleep,  they  have  fought  their  last  battle, 
•   No  sound  can  awake  them  to  glory  again. 

Yet,  spirit  immortal,  the  tomb  cannot  bind  thee, 

For,  like  thine  own  eagle  that  soared  to  the  sun, 
Thou  springest  from  bondage  and  leavest  behind  thee 

A  name  which  before  thee  no  mortal  had  won  ! 
Though  nations  may  combat,  and  war's  thunders  rattle. 

No  more  on  thy  steed  wilt  thou  sweep  o'er  the  plain ; 
Thou  sleep'st  thy  last  sleep,  thou  hast  fought  thy  last  battle, 

No  sound  can  awake  thee  to  glory  again  ! 


CADYOW   CASTLE. 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 
Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers. 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flowed, 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound. 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound. 
As  mirth  and  music  cheered  the  hall. 


'T  is  noon,  —  against  the  knotted  oak 
The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear ; 

Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke, 
Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 


CADYOW   CASTLE.  191 

Proudly  the  Cliieftain  marked  his  clan. 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown, 

Yet  missed  his  eye  the  boldest  man, 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

"Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace  ? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare?" 

Stern  Claud  replied,  with  darkening  face 
(Gray  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he) : 

"  At  merry  feast  or  buxom  chase 
No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set  since  Woodhouselee 
Saw  Bothwellhaugh's  bright  goblets  foam, 

When  to  his  hearth,  in  social  glee, 

The  war-worn  soldier  turned  him  home. 

"  There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes, 

His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild. 
Sate  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose, 

And  peaceful  nursed  her  new-born  child. 

"  Oh,  change  accursed  !  past  are  those  days  ; 

False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came, 
And,  for  tlie  hearth's  domestic  blaze. 

Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame." 


He  ceased ;  and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band. 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  Chief, 

And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 


192  CADYOW  CASTLE. 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream  and  rock, 
Eides  headlong  with  resistless  speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed  ? 

Sternly  he  spoke  :  "  'T  is  sweet  to  hear 
In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown, 

But  sweeter  to  Eevenge's  ear 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"  Your  slaughtered  quarry  proudly  trode, 
At  dawning  morn,  o'er  dale  and  down, 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 

Through  old  Linlithgow's  crowded  town. 

"  With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand, 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose. 

And  marked  where,  mingling  in  his  band, 
Trooped  Scottish  pikes  and  English  bows. 

"  Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear. 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van  ; 

And  clashed  their  broadswords  in  the  rer.r 
The  wild  Macfarlanes'  plaided  clan. 

»       "  'Mid  pennoned  spears,  a  steely  grove, 

Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high  : 
Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move. 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

"  But  yet  his  saddened  brow  confessed 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe  ; 
Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast, 
'  Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh  ! ' 


IVIfEX    TWILIGHT  DEWS.  193 

"  The  death-shot  parts,  the  charger  springs, 

Wild  rises  tiiiniilt's  startling  roar ! 
And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings, — 

Rings  on  the  ground,  to  rise  no  more. 

"  What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel 

To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell ; 
Or  he  who  broaches  on  his  steel 

The  wolf  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

"  But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 

To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll ; 
And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy, 

To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul." 

Scott. 


WHEN   TWILIGHT   DEWS. 

When  twilight  dews  are  falling  soft 

Upon  the  rosy  sea,  love, 
I  watch  the  star,  whose  beam  so  oft 

Has  lighted  me  to  thee,  love. 
And  thou,  too,  on  that  orb  so  dear, 

Ah,  dost  thou  gaze  at  even ; 
And  think,  though  lost  forever  here, 

Thou  'It  yet  be  mine  in  heaven  ? 

There 's  not  a  garden-walk  I  tread, 
There 's  not  a  flower  I  see,  love. 

But  brings  to  mind  some  hope  that 's  fled, 
Some  joy  I  've  lost  with  thee,  love. 

13 


194  TO  Siail,    YET  FEEL  NO  PAIN. 

And  still  I  wish  that  hour  was  near, 
When  friends  and  foes  forgiven, 

The  pains,  the  ills,  we  've  wept  through  here 

May  turn  to  smiles  in  heaven. 

Moore. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  Long. 


TO   SIGH,   YET   FEEL   NO  PAIK 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain  ; 

To  weep,  yet  scarce  know  why ; 
To  sport  an  hour  with  beauty's  chain, 

Then  throw  it  idly  by ; 
To  kneel  at  many  a  shrine. 

Yet  lay  the  lieart  on  none  ; 
To  think  all  other  charms  divine. 

But  those  we  just  have  won,  — 
This  is  love,  faithless  love. 

Such  as  kindleth  hearts  that  rove. 

To  keep  one  sacred  flame. 

Through  life  unchilled,  unmoved ; 
To  love  in  wintry  age  the  same 

As  first  in  youth  we  loved ; 
To  feel  that  we  adore, 

Even  to  such  fond  excess, 
That,  though  the  heart  Avould  break  with  more. 

It  could  not  live  with  less,  — 
This  is  love,  faithful  love, 

Such  as  saints  might  feel  above. 

Moore. 


BALLAD  STANZAS.  195 

IMPROMPTU 

WRITTEN    AMONG   THE    RUINS    OF   THE    SONNENBERiJ. 

Thou  who  within  thyself  dost  not  behold 

Ruins  as  great  as  these,  though  not  as  old, 

Canst  scarce  through  life  have  travelled  many  a  year, 

Or  lack'st  the  spirit  of  a  pilgrim  here. 

Youth  hath  its  walls  of  strength,  its  towers  of  pride ; 

Love,  its  warm  hearth-stones;  hope,  its  prospects  wide: 

Life's  fortress  in  thee  held  these,  one  and  all ; 

And  they  have  fallen  to  ruin,  or  shall  fall. 

Mrs.  Kemble. 

BALLAD  STANZAS. 

I  KNEW,  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near. 

And  I  said,  "  If  there 's  peace  to  be  found  in  the  world, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it  here." 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languished  around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 

Pjut  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech-tree. 

And  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye. 

Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  if  I  blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm  could  I  die ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline. 

And  to  know  that  I  sighed  upon  innocent  lips 

Which  had  never  been  sighed  on  by  any  but  mine." 

MOORB. 

One  of  my  very  oldest  boyhood  favorites. 


196 


THE   ERL-KING. 


THE   EEL-KING. 

Who  rides  there  so  late  throiigli  the  night  dark  and  drear? 

Tlie  father  it  is,  with  his  infant  so  dear: 

He  hi^kleth  the  boy  tightly  clasped  in  his  arm ; 

He  holdeth  him  safely,  he  keepeth  him  warm. 

"  My  son,  wherefore  seek'st  thou  thy  face  thus  to  hide  ? " 
"  Look,  father,  the  Erl-King  is  close  by  our  side ! 
Dost  see  not  the  Erl-King,  with  crown  and  with  train  ? " 
"  My  son,  't  is  the  mist  rising  over  the  plain." 

"  Oh,  come,  thou  dear  infant !  oh,  come  thou  with  me  ! 
Full  many  a  game  I  will  play  there  with  thee ; 
On  my  strand  lovely  flowers  their  blossoms  unfold, 
My  mother  shall  grace  thee  with  garments  of  gold." 

"My  father,  my  father,  and  dost  thou  not  hear 

The  words  that  the  Erl-King  now  breathes  in  mine  ear  ? " 

"  Be  calm,  dearest  child  !  't  is  thy  fancy  deceives  ; 

'T  is  the  sad  wind  that  sighs  through  the  withering  leaves." 

"  Wilt  go,  then,  dear  infant,  wilt  go  with  me  there  ? 

My  daughters,  shall  tend  thee  with  sisterly  care : 

My  daughters  by  night  their  glad  festival  keep ; 

They  '11  dance  thee,  and  rock  thee,  and  sing  thee  to  sleep." 

"  My  father,  my  father,  and  dost  thou  not  see 

How  the  Erl-King  his  daughters  has  brought  here  for  me  ? " 

"  My  darling,  my  darling,  I  see  it  aright ; 

'T  is  the  aged  gray  willows  deceiving  thy  sight." 

"  I  love  thee,  I  'm  charmed  by  thy  beauty,  dear  boy ! 
And  if  thou  'rt  unwilling,  then  force  I  '11  employ." 
"  My  father,  my  father,  he  seizes  me  fast ; 
Full  sorely  the  Erl-King  has  hurt  me  at  last." 


YOU  REMEMBER   ELLEN.  197 

The  father  now  gallops,  with  terror  half  wild ; 
He  grasps  in  his  arms  the  puor  shuddering  child : 
He  reaches  his  courtyard  witli  toil  and  with  dread, — 
The  child  in  his  arms  finds  he  motionless,  dead. 

Goethe. 


YOU   REMEMBER   ELLEN. 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride. 

How  meekly  she  blessed  her  humble  lot, 
When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her  his  bride. 

And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 
Together  they  toiled  through  winds  and  rains, 

Till  William  at  length  in  sadness  said, 
"  We  must  seek  our  fortune  on  other  plains ;  " 

Then,  sighing,  she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roamed  a  long  and  a  weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  maiden's  heart  at  ease, 
When  now,  at  the  close  of  one  stormy  day, 

They  see  a  proud  castle  among  the  trees. 
"  To-night,"  said  the  youth,  "  we  '11  shelter  there ; 

The  wind  blows  cold,  and  the  hour  is  late." 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a  chieftain's  air. 

And  the  porter  bowed  as  they  passed  the  gate. 

"  Now,  welcome,  lady,"  exclaimed  the  youth, 

"  This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods  all  ! " 

She  believed  him  crazed,  but  his  words  were  truth, 
For  Ellen  is  Lady  of  Rosna  Hall. 

And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

What  William  the  stranger  wooed  and  wed  ; 

And  the  light  of  bliss,  in  these  lordly  groves. 

Shines  pure  as  it  did  in  the  lowly  shed. 

Moore. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  Long. 


198  THE   STEERSMAN'S   SONG. 


THE   YOUNG  MAY   MOON. 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love ; 
The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love. 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove. 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love. 
Then  awake,  —  the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear ; 
'T  is  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear, 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear. 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love. 

But  the  Sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love  ; 

And  I,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far. 
Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake,  —  till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  Sage's  glass  we  '11  shun,  my  dear, 

Or,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear. 

Moore. 


THE  STEEESMAN'S   SONG. 

WKITTEN  ABOARD  THE  BOSTON  FRIGATE. 

When  freshly  blows  the  northern  gale, 
And  under  courses  snug  we  fly  ; 

When  lighter  breezes  swell  the  sail. 
And  royals  proudly  sweep  the  sky,  — 


THE    WOOD  FIRE.  199 

'Loiigside  the  wheel,  unwearied  still 

I  stand,  and  as  my  watchful  eye 
Doth  mark  the  needle's  faithful  thrill, 

I  think  of  her  I  love,  and  cry, 

"Port,  my  boy,  port ! " 

When  calms  delay,  or  breezes  blow 

Eight  from  the  point  we  wish  to  steer ; 
When  by  the  wind  close-hauled  we  go, 

And  strive  in  vain  the  port  to  near,  — 
I  think  't  is  thus  the  Fates  defer 

My  bliss  with  one  that 's  far  away ; 
And  while  remembrance  springs  to  her, 

I  watch  the  sails,  and  sighing  say, 
"  Thus,  my  boy,  thus." 

But,  see !  the  wind  draws  kindly  aft ; 

All  hands  are  up  the  yards  to  square, 
And  now  the  floating  stu'n-sails  waft 

Our  stately  ship  through  waves  and  air. 
Oh,  then  I  think  that  yet  for  me 

Some  breeze  of  fortune  thus  may  spring, 
Some  breeze  to  waft  me,  love,  to  thee. 

And  in  that  hope  I  smiling  sing, 
"  Steady,  boy,  so." 

Moore. 


THE  WOOD   FIKE. 

This  bright  wood-fire. 
So  like  to  that  which  warmed  and  lit 
My  youthful  days,  —  how  doth  it  flit 
Back  on  the  periods  nigher, 
Relighting  and  rewarming  in  its  glow 
The  bright  scenes  of  my  youth,  all  gone  out  now. 


200  THE    WOOD  FIRE. 

How  eagerly  its  flickering  blaze  doth  catch 

On  every  point,  now  wrapped  in  time's  deep  shade  ! 

Into  what  wild  grotesqueness  by  its  flash 

And  fitful  checkering  is  the  picture  made ! 

"When  I  am  glad  or  gay, 

Let  me  walk  forth  into  the  brilliant  sun, 

And  with  congenial  rays  be  shone  upon  ; 

When  I  am  sad,  or  thought-bewitched  would  be, 

Let  me  glide  forth  in  moonlight's  mystery ; 

But  never,  while  I  live  this  varied  life. 

This  past  and  future,  with  all  wonders  rife. 

Never,  dear  flame,  may  be  denied  to  me 

Thy  dear  life-imaging,  close  sympathy. 

What  but  my  hopes  shot  upward  e'er  so  bright  ? 

What  Ijut  my  fortunes  sank  so  low  in  night ! 

Why  art  thou  banished  now  from  hearth  and  hall. 
Thou  who  art  welcomed  and  beloved  by  all  ? 
W^as  thy  existence  then  too  fanciful 
For  our  world's  common  light,  who  are  so  dull  ? 
Did  thy  bright  gleams  mysterious  converse  hold 
With  our  congenial  souls,  —  secrets  too  bold  ! 
Well,  we  are  safe  and  strong,  for  now  we  sit 
Beside  a  hearth  where  no  dim  shadows  flit. 
Where  nothing  cheers  nor  saddens,  but  a  fire 
Warms  feet  and  hands,  nor  does  to  more  aspire  ; 
By  whose  compact  utilitarian  heap 
The  present  may  sit  down  and  go  to  sleep. 
Nor  fear  the  ghosts  who  from  the  dim  past  walked. 
And  with  us  by  the  unequal  light  of  the  old  wood-fire  talked. 

E.  S.  H. 

E.  S.  H.   filled  my  boyhood's  picture  of  intellectual    brightness   and   infinite 
beauty  and  sweetness. 


\ 


THE   WINGED   WORSHIPPERS.  201 


THE  WINGED   WORSHIPPEES. 

ADDRESSED  TO  TWO  SWALLOWS  THAT  FLEW  INTO  CIIAUNCY  PLACE 
CHURCH  DURING  DIVINE  SERVICE. 

Gay,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ;' 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  he  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  hend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  't  is  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays  ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour. 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 


202  SOUND    THE  LOUD    TIMBREL. 

Above  the  crowd 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 
I  'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the  sky. 

'T  were  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar. 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed. 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 

Charles  Sprague. 
A  lifetime  favorite.     I  remember  well  the  poet,  with  the  dehk  and  the  buzz  of 
the  bank  around  him,  in  odd  contrast  to  his  refined  and  classical  feature.^. 


SOUND   THE   LOUD   TIMBREL. 

mieiam's  song. 

Air:   "  Avison." 

"  And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel  in  her  hand  ; 
and  all  the  women  went  out  after  her  with  timbrels  and  with  dances."  —  Exou. 
XV.  20. 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free. 
Sing,  —  for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken. 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and  brave. 
How  vain  was  their  boasting,  —  the  Lord  hath  but  spoken. 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free. 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord ! 

His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was  our  sword. 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 


J 


THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FRAGRANT  SHRINE.       203 

Vov  he  luitli  looked  out  from  his  pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dashed  in  the  tide. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free. 

MOORK. 

THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FEAGRANT  SHRINE. 

xVni :  "Stevenson." 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord,  that  arch  of  thine ; 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs. 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves. 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves, 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea. 
E'en  more  than  music,  breathes  of  thee. 

I  '11  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne ; 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  heaven,  on  which  't  is  bliss  to  look. 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book. 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  flame, 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

I  '11  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  daybeam's  track ; 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness,  breaking  through. 


204         THIS    WORLD  IS  ALL   A    FLEETING   SHOW. 

There 's  nothing  bright,  above,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  deity. 

There 's  nothing  dark,  below,  above. 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love. 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again. 

Moore. 


THIS  AVOELD    IS   ALL  A  FLEETING   SHOW. 

Air  :  "Stevenson." 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given  ; 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe, 
Deceitful  slime,  deceitful  flow,  — 

There 's  nothing  true  but  heaven. 

And  false  the  light  on  Glory's  plume. 

As  fading  hues  of  even ; 
And  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Beauty's  bloom 
Are  blossoms  gathered  for  the  tomb, — 

There  's  nothing  bright  but  heaven. 

Poor  wanderers  of  a  stormy  day, 

From  wave  to  wave  we  're  driven ; 
And  fancy's  flash  and  reason's  ray 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way,  — 
There  's  nothing  calm  but  heaven. 

Moore. 


ABSENCE.  205 


ABSENCE. 


What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face  ? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 

Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace  ? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, 
Weary  with  longing  ?     Shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time  ? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime  ? 

Oh,  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I  contrive 

To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near  ? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  ? 

I  '11  tell  thee ;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told. 
While  thou,  beloved  one,  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy  strains ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 

Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes  ])ain. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time;  and  will  therein  strive 


206  HUNTING-SONG   FOR  1839. 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 

More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  alive. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 

A  thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be  thine; 

So  may  my  love  and  longhig  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 

Mrs.  Kemble. 


HUNTING-SONG  FOR   1839. 

Ye  hunters  of  New  England 

Who  bear  the  rusty  guns 
Your  fathers  shot  the  redcoats  with, 

And  left  them  to  their  sons ! 
With  all  your  firelocks  blaze  away 

Before  the  bucks  are  gone, 
As  you  aim  at  the  game 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon, 
Where  the  shot  are  flying  right  and  left 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon. 

Our  sportsmen  are  proverbial 

Among  the  ducks  and  loons, 
And  greatly  feared  of  quadrupeds, 

From  mammoths  down  to  coons. 
With  double  barrels  loaded  high, 

Their  triggers  both  are  drawn, 
As  they  clang  and  they  bang 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon, 
Where  tlie  bucks  are  leaping  through  the  leaves 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon. 


I 


THE  BUGLE-HORN.  207 

New  England's  trusty  sportsmen 

Shall  leave  their  wives  so  dear, 
To  hunt  with  our  brave  Governor 

For  many  a  happy  year. 
Then,  then,  ye  gallant  gentlemen. 

When  ancient  corks  are  drawn, 
Fill  the  toasts  to  the  host 

In  the  hall  of  old  Naushon, 
While  the  wine  is  flowing  bright  and  free 

In  the  hall  of  old  Naushon. 

Holmes. 


THE   BUGLE-HORN. 

Oh,  who  does  not  love  the  bugle-horn  ? 

How  sweet  are  its  tones  on  the  breezes  borne  ! 

They  seem  like  the  voice  of  a  spirit  to  be. 

Breathing  its  heavenly  melody. 

What  a  lovely  morn  is  this  to  blend 

Its  music  with  that  which  the  forests  lend  ! 

The  sunlight  breaks  through  the  leaves  of  green. 

And  softly  rests  on  the  limbs  between, 

And  the  gale  of  autumn  has  checked  its  career, 

While  the  hills  re-echo  the  cadence  clear. 

How  thrillingly  sweet  the  notes  float  along, 

And  the  sheen  of  the  ocean  still  bears  them  on, 

As  calmly  wrapped  in  an  em(^rald  bed. 

It  sleeps  in  peace,  for  the  storm  spirit  has  fled. 

So  pure  and  clear  in  repose  it  seems 

Like  the  face  of  a  sleeper  who  sinless  dreams ; 

And  the  crash  in  the  distance  that 's  brought  to  my  ear 

Is  caused  by  the  leap  of  the  forest  deer. 


208 


COME    TO    THE   SPORTS,   ETC. 


At  the  sound  of  my  bugle  he  's  up  and  away  : 
No  music  to  him  is  the  huntsman's  lay. 
Oh,  Death,  when  he  comes,  let  it  be  such  a  morn ! 
From  its  tenement  here  when  my  spirit  is  borne. 
May  it  pass  like  the  notes  of  my  bugle-horn ! 
1835.  W.  H.  H. 

W.  H.  H.  introduced  the  bugle  into  Kaushox  woods.  His  instrument  still 
belongs  to  one  of  my  grandchildren.  We  have  lately  tried  to  reproduce  tlu^  effect 
of  it  at  the  hunt  of  1883. 


I 


COME   TO   THE   SPORTS   OF   OUE   WAVE-CIRCLED 

ISLE. 

Come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave-circled  isle, 

Come  when  the  forest  is  changing ; 
By  the  starry  light  of  an  autumn  night, 

The  deer  through  the  woods  are  ranging. 


The  hoar-frost  fringes  the  moss-covered  tree. 
The  wind  through  the  boughs  is  sighing ; 

Though  its  leaves  are  sear  with  the  waning  year, 
A  buck  in  their  shade  is  lying. 

The  hues  of  summer  are  gone  from  the  hill, 
But  the  sunshine  around  it  is  streaming ; 

With  a  living  light  the  forest  is  bright, 
Wliere  the  doe  in  her  lair  is  dreaming. 

These  are  the  glories  of  Nature's  decay, — 
She  fades  with  no  tinge  of  sadness ; 

O'er  her  scarlet  bowers,  o'er  the  dying  flowers, 
The  fawns  are  leaping  in  gladness. 


OH,  LET  NO   CHANGE  IN  AFTER    YEARS.  209 

And  thus  should  life,  like  the  fleeting  year, 
Grow  bright  as  it  nears  the  gloaming, 

Till  it  shines  a  star  in  the  fields  of  air, 

Where  the  loved  and  lost  ones  are  roaming. 

Then  come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave-circled  isle. 

Come  when  the  forest  is  changing ; 
By  the  starry  light  of  an  autumn  night, 
The  deer  through  its  woods  are  ranging. 

W.  \V.  S. 
Sung  ;tt  the  hunt,  October,  1839. 


OH,    LET  NO   CHANGE   IN   AFTER   YEAKS. 

Oh,  let  no  change  in  after  years 

Efface  the  magic  spell 
That  fancy  weaves  around  these  scenes. 

Where  memory  loves  to  dwell ! 
Amidst  the  toiling  throngs  of  life. 

The  world's  most  tainted  air. 
Oh,  keep  unstained  from  vulgar  strife 
The  feelings  cherished  here ! 

We  '11  then,  as  now,  round  friendship's  shrine 

The  heart's  libation  pour. 
And  sadly  still  fresh  garlands  twine, 
At  twilight's  musing  hour. 

Wlien  loudly  moans  the  autumn  gale. 

In  storm  the  daylight  fades. 
And  lifelike  tones  of  seeming  wail 

Sound  through  the  forest  glades, 
Oh,  they,  the  loved  of  other  days, 

How  fondly  then  they  seem 

14 


210     "/  NUMBER  NONE  BUT  THE  CLOUDLESS  HOURS." 

To  hover  round  our  thoughtful  gaze, 
Like  a  remembered  dream  ! 
We  '11  then,  as  now,  &c. 

And  when  the  tranquil  summer  air 

Breathes  on  its  earliest  flowers, 

The  thought,  amid  these  scenes  so  fair, 

Steals  o'er  our  happiest  hours,  — 

Of  those  whom  oft  with  joy  we  met, 

They  still  are  lingering  near  ; 

We  meet  them  yet,  we  meet  them  yet. 

In  storm  and  sunshine  here. 

We'll  now,  as  then,  round  friendship's  shrine 

The  heart's  libation  pour, 

And  sadly  still  fresh  garlands  twine. 

At  twilight's  musing  hour. 

W.  W.  S. 

October,  1841.     This  always  seemed  to  nie  tlie  best  original  thing  in  the  Island 
Book. 


"I  NUMBER  NONE   BUT  THE  CLOUDLESS  HOURS. 

Air  ;   "  Fair  Harvard." 

There  stands,  in  the  garden  of  old  St.  Mark, 

A  sun-dial,  quaint  and  gray, 
And  takes  no  heed  as  the  hours  in  the  dark 

Pass  over  it  day  by  day ; 
It  has  stood  for  ages  among  the  flowers. 

In  the  land  of  sky  and  song,  — 
"  I  number  none  but  the  cloudless  hours," 

Its  motto,  the  livelong  day. 

So  let  my  heart  in  this  garden  of  life 
Its  calendar  cheerfully  keep. 


WELCOME    TO   A    SUPPER.  211 

Taking  no  note  of  the  sorrow  and  strife 

Which  in  shadow  across  it  creep ; 
Content  to  dwell  in  this  land  of  onrs, 
In  the  hope  that  is  twin  with  love, 
And  numbering  none  but  the  cloudless  hours, 
Till  the  day-spring  dawn  from  above. 

Anonymois. 
N.vrsHOX,  Sept.  1,  1866. 


WELCOME   TO   A   SUPPER 

GIVEN   TO    DR.  0.  W.  HOLMES,    FEB.    16,  1865,    AT    MILTON. 

As  'mid  the  storm-cloud's  parting  veil 

A  ray  of  sunshine  streams, 
So  through  rude  winter,  snow,  and  hail, 

His  bright-eyed  visage  gleams 
Who  gilds  the  lore  of  ancient  days 

With  gems  of  wit  and  mirth, 
And  weaves  the  poet's  sweetest  lays 

That  genius  gives  to  earth. 
Eill  up  till  o'er  the  crystal  rim 

The  sparkling  wine-drops  flow  ; 
While  lips  that  drain  the  beaker's  brim 

With  warmest  welcome  glow. 

Twine  round  his  brows  a  triple  wreath 

Of  rarest  wildwood  flowers, 
Plucked  when  Aurora's  perfumed  breath 

Plays  with  the  laughing  hours ; 
And  while  fresh  laurels  thus  we  cull 

For  learning,  wit,  and  art, 
Fill  up  your  glasses,  fill  them  full 

To  his  large,  genial  heart. 


212  HUNTING-SONG. 


Fill  up  till  o'er  the  crystal  rim 

The  sparkling  wine-drops  How, 
While  lips  that  drain  the  heaker's  brim 

With  warmest  welcome  glow. 

W.  W.  Swain. 


HUNTING-SONG. 

Not  a  buck  was  shot,  nor  a  doe,  nor  a  fawn, 

As  from  drive  to  drive  we  hurried. 
Though  the  huntsmen  were  dragged  from  their  beds 
at  dawn, 

And  the  deer  were  terribly  worried. 

We  crawled  back  slowly  at  fall  of  night, 

At  a  funeral  trot  returning, 
As  we  steered  our  course  by  the  dim  red  light 

Of  the  captain's  cheroot  a-burning. 

Short,  not  sweet,  were  the  words  w^e  said, 

As  we  smoked  in  silent  sorrow ; 
But  we  swore  that  the  deer  must  all  be  dead, 

—  And  we  'd  try  it  again  to-morrow. 

No  rush  for  saddle  or  haunch  was  heard,  — 

We  did  not  care  a  button ; 
For  we  said  with  a  grin  how  much  w^e  preferred 

A  leg  of  the  island  mutton. 

Then  we  jogged  in  silence  along  the  road ; 

But  we  kept  up  a  mighty  thinking 
Of  the  wagon  showing  its  empty  load. 

And  the  folks  all  staring  and  winking. 


Ay   OPAL    GEM.  213 

We  thought,  as  we  sadly  removed  the  caps 

From  the  useless  shot  and  powder, 
How  we  'd  better  have  stayed  at  home  perhajis, 

And  fired  with  our  spoons  at  chowder ! 

Slowly  and  solemnly  one  hy  one 

We  entered  and  told  our  story, 
The  hearing  whereof  brought  lots  of  fun 

And  a  plentiful  lack  of  glory. 


Holmes. 


September  23,  1857. 


AN   OPAL   GEM. 

An  opal  gem,  the  island  lies, 
Set  in  the  blue  surrounding  sea  ; 

And  there  beneath  the  sunny  skies 

Wander  young  footsteps,  light  and  free. 

There  gayly  gleam  the  ruddy  leaves. 
Soft  shimmering  in  the  autumn  sun, 

Her  rainbow  robe  the  rich  year  weaves,  — 
Rare  robe,  to  deck  the  harvest  spun. 

It  is  the  month  the  hunters  love  ; 

Sound  the  wild  horn,  bring  forth  the  steed ! 
O'er  hill  and  dell  we  'd  gladly  rove  ; 

But  who  the  gallant  chase  shall  lead  ? 

Sad  silence  hangs  upon  the  hall ; 

No  hunter's  troop  to-day  you  '11  find. 
He  who  was  first  to  sound  the  call 

In  his  still  grave  hears  not  the  wind, 


214  ^.V  OPAL    GEM. 

Nor  song  of  bird,  nor  voice  of  friend  ; 

Nor  feels  the  warmth  of  morning  sun, 
Or  of  true  hearts  that  sadly  blend 

For  love  of  him  whose  race  is  run. 

The  deer  may  toss  her  antlers  high, 
To  seek  the  covert  of  the  brake  : 

No  need  the  hunter's  foot  to  fly  ; 

This  year  we  hunt  not,  for  his  sake,  — • 

For  sake  of  him  who  once  did  own 
With  heart  so  free  this  sea-girt  isle, 

Whose  memory  in  thy  woods,  Naushon, 
Is  writ  in  Nature's  sunny  smile  ; 

But  not  in  Nature's  smile  alone  ! 

More  deeply  writ  in  those  two  graves,  — 
The  love  that  gathered  to  its  own 

Now  shares  the  life  from  death  that  saves. 

And  he  who  in  the  distant  years 

Shall  call  his  own  these  woodlands  fair, 

Who  seeks  of  earthly  hopes  and  fears 
To  know  the  end,  shall  hud  it  there. 

Yet  not  in  sadness  close  the  strain 

That  tells  of  this  last  "  Harvest  home  ;  " 

A  moment  pause,  to  wind  again 

The  jocund  notes  which  sounded  "  Come ! ' 

And  when  the  friends  who  at  that  call 
With  joy  appear  in  ready  bands. 

In  turn  lie  low,  still  may  this  hall 

Know  the  warm  grasp  of  cordial  hands  : 


NO  MORE  THE  SUMMER  FLOWERET  CHARMS.       215 

Still  may  the  early  breeze  and  sun 

Keep  fresh  the  cheerful  thought  of  hiui 
Who  from  the  morn  till  day  was  done 
In  gladness  joined  their  joyful  hymn. 

A.  s.  II. 
CoTUiT,  Oct.  1'.^  or  17,  185S. 


NO  MORE   THE   SUMMER   FLOWERET   CHARM.S. 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sear, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jewelled  arms 

Around  the  dying  year ; 
So,  ere  the  whitening  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  awhile, 
With  golden  wine  and  glowing  flame 

We  '11  cro^yn  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Withm  the  antlered  hall, 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  hound 

Returns  the  hunter's  call. 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  still, 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away  ! 

No  bars  of  steel,  nor  walls  of  stone. 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone. 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round. 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore. 
Braid  with  their  dim  and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 


216  CHARADE. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 

That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 
To  rule  amidst  our  island  state, 

And  wear  our  oak-leaf  crown  ? 
And  who  will  be  awhile  content 

To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 
And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 

The  reeking  tracks  of  fame  ? 

And  who,  that  shares  in  toils  like  these, 

Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 
Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 

Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 
Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 

Ye  outlaws  of  the  w^ood. 
And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 

Your  noble  Eobin  Hood. 
October,  1849.  O.  W.  H. 


CHAKADE. 

A  BAEK  from  Tagus'  golden  strand 
My  First  floats  on  the  stream ; 

Go  seek  it  where  the  Emerald  land 
Smiles  with  her  brightest  gleam. 

My  Second  through  my  first  pursues 
By  turns  its  winding  way  ; 

And  wdien  descend  the  twilight  dews. 
And  Bacchus  bears  the  sway, 

My  Whole  the  imprisoned  spirit  frees, 
\^^lilst  loud  the  jest  and  song 

Are  borne  upon  the  evening  breeze 
In  joyous  notes  along. 


W.  W.  S. 


J 


THE   STORM  PETREL.  211 


SOFT   GLEAMS   THE   OCTOBER   SUN. 

Soft  gleams  the  October  sun  : 

We  look  for  the  feet  of  the  hunter ; 

But  the  hunter's  race  is  run, 

No  more  he  mounts  with  the  morning. 

Old  boon  companions  and  friends, 
This  year  we  meet  not  each  other ; 
No  voice  the  greeting  sends. 
In  stillness  shines  the  morning. 

No  more  shall  his  clieerful  halloo 
Arouse  the  deer  in  the  dell ; 
The  earth  hath  taken  its  due, 
Till  shines  the  eternal  morning. 


Supposed  to  refer  to  Governor  Swain. 


A.  S.  H. 


THE   STORM    PETREL.    • 

Bird  of  untiring  wing. 

Whose  home  is  the  wave's  crest, 
When  clouds  and  darkness  fling 
Their  curtains  o'er  the  deep. 
It  cradles  thy  light  sleep 

Upon  its  heaving  breast. 

With  morning's  early  light. 
Ear  o'er  the  long  low  wave 

Begins  thy  wandering  flight ; 

All  day  thy  pinions  sweep 

Above  the  unfathomed  deep, 
Thy  heritage  and  grave. 


218  OX  A.  B. 


Dark  harbinger  of  stonii ! 

Amidst  the  roaring  surge 
Is  seen  thy  shadowy  form, 

As  phantom-like  it  glides 
Far  down  their  caverned  sides, 
Or  scales  the  crested  verge. 

Along  their  foaming  track, 

When  ships,  by  tempest  tossed. 

Reel  madly  through  the  rack, 

And  stout  hearts  quail  with  fear, 

Then  thou  art  hovering  near, 
"  Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost." 

W.  W.  S. 


ON   A.    B. 

The  music  clamors  shrill  and  loud. 

And  vibrates  on  the  perfumed  air ; 
The  myriad  murmurs  of  the  crowd 

Die  into  breathless  silence  there. 
We  hear  the  tread  of  marching  feet. 

We  hear  the  rattling  roll  of  drums  ; 
All  vagrant  eyes  together  meet, 

The  maskers  gay  procession  comes. 

And,  first  and  fairest  of  them  all. 

The  glad  night's  sovereign  leads  the  line. 
Each  heart  beats  proud  to  own  the  thrall 

Of  youth  and  beauty's  right  divine ; 
And  swift  the  yielding  mass  divides 

To  leave  her  princely  progress  free, 
As  tlirough  the  spacious  path  she  glides. 

Like  Israel  through  the  parted  sea. 


I 


IT  IS  A    BEAUTIFUL   BELIEF.  219 

What  crown  is  worth  her  own  dark  hair, 

What  arms  so  fatal  as  her  eyes  ? 
What  banner  ever  shone  so  fair 

As  in  her  cheek  faint  flushing  flies  ? 
Decked  with  these  emblems  of  her  power, 

Her  beauty  lights  the  gilded  room  ; 
One  heart,  one  worship,  gilds  the  hour. 

As  one  sun  warms  a  summer's  bloom. 

And  after  her  there  comes  a  swarm 

Of  smaller  stars  less  grandly  bright, 
As  in  the  tropic  midnight  warm 

I  Ve  seen  faint  glimmers  fire  the  night. 
That  in  some  proud  ship's  wake  were  rife, 

Whose  full-sailed  beauty  cleft  the  waves. 
That  in  her  passage  found  their  life, 

And  in  her  shadow  found  their  graves, 

The  pageant  passes,  and  she  goes ; 

Her  beauty  gladdens  other  eyes, 
And  in  my  passing  dream  the  rose 

Fades  to  the  gray  of  winter  skies. 
I  sigh  as  round  my  heart  is  rolled 

Indifference  that  beguiles  despair. 
Would  I  were  only  half  as  old, 

Or  she  were  only  half  as  fair ! 

Colonel  Hay. 


IT   IS   A   BEAUTIFUL   BELIEF. 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief 
That  ever  round  our  head 

Are  hovering,  with  noiseless  wing, 
The  spirits  of  the  dead. 


220 


DRYBURGH  ABBEY. 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

When  finished  our  career, 
That  it  will  be  our  destiny 

To  watch  o'er  others  here ; 

To  lend  a  moral  to  the  flower, 

Breathe  wisdom  on  the  wind  ; 
To  hold  commune,  at  night's  pure  noon, 

With  the  imprisoned  mind; 

To  bid  the  erring  cease  to  err, 

The  trembling  be  forgiven  ; 
To  bear  away  from  ills  of  clay 

The  infant  to  its  heaven. 

Ah,  when  delight  was  found  in  life, 

And  joy  in  every  breath, 
I  cannot  tell  how  terrible 

The  mystery  of  death. 

But  now  the  past  is  bright  to  me. 

And  all  the  future  clear  ; 
For  't  is  my  faith  that  after  death 

We  still  shall  linger  here. 

James  H.  Perkins. 


DEYBURGH   ABBEY. 

'T  WAS  morn,  but  not  the  ray  which  falls  the  summer  boughr; 

among. 
When  beauty  walks  in  gladness  forth,  with  all  her  light  and 

song; 
'T  was  morn,  but  mist  and  cloud  hung  deep  upon  the  lonely  vale. 
And  shadows,  like  the  wings  of  death,  were  out  upon  the  gale. 


DRYBURGH  ABBEY.  221 

For  he  whose  spuit  woke  the  dust  of  nations  into  life, 

That  o'er  the  waste  and  barren  earth  spread  flowers  and  fruitage 

rife ; 
Whose  genius  like  the  sun  illumed  the  mighty  realms  of  mind,  — 
Had  fled  forever  from  the  fame,  love,  friendship  of  mankind. 

To  wear  a  wreath  in  glory  wrought  his  spirit  swept  afar. 
Beyond  the  soaring  wing  of  thought,  the  light  of  moon  or  star, 
To  drink  immortal  waters,  free  from  every  taint  of  earth, 
To  breathe  before  the  shrine  of  life,  the  source  whence  worlds 
had  birth. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  early  breeze,  and  darkness  in  the  sky, 
When  with  sable  plume,  and  cloak,  and  pall,  a  funeral  train 

swept  by ; 
Methought  —  St.    Mary    shield   us    well !  —  that    other    forms 

moved  there 
Than  those  of  mortal  brotherhood,  the  noble,  young,  and  fair. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     How  oft  in  sleep  we  ask.  Can  this  be  true  ? 
Whilst  warm  imagination  paints  her  marvels  to  our  view ; 
Earth's  glory  seems  a  tarnished  down  to  that  which  we  behold 
When  dreams  enchant  our  sight  with  thhigs   whose  meanest 
garb  is  gold. 

AVas  it  a  dream  ?     Methought,  the  "  dauntless  Harold  "  passed 

me  by ; 
The  proud  "  Fitz  James,"  with  martial  step,  and  dark  intrepid 

eye; 
That  "  Marmion's  "  haughty  crest  was  there,  a  mourner  for  his 

sake ; 
And  she,  the  bold,  the  beautiful,  —  sweet  "  Lady  of  the  Lake." 

The  minstrel  whose  last  lay  was  o'er,  whose  liroken  harp  lay  low. 
And  with  him  glorious  "  Waverley  "  with  glance  and  step  of  woe  ; 


222  DRYBURGH  ABBEY. 

And  "  Stuart's"  voice  rose  there  as  when,  'midst  fate's  disastrous 

war, 
He  led  the  wild,  ambitious,  proud,  and  brave  "  Teh  Ian  Vohr." 

Next,  marvelling  at  his  sable  suit,  the  "Dominie"  stalked  pa^t, 

With  "  Bertram,"  "  Julia,"  by  his  side,  whose  tears  w^ere  flowing- 
fast ; 

"Guy  Mannering,"  too,  moved  there,  o'erpowered  by  that  afflict- 
ing sight, 

And  "  Merrilies,"  as  when  she  wept  on  Ellangowan's  height. 

Solemn  and  grave,  "  Monkbarns  "  approached,  amidst  that  burial 

line, 
And   "  Ochiltree "  bent  o'er  his  staff  and    mourned  for  "  Auld 

lang  syne." 
Slow  moved  the  gallant  "  Mclntyre,"  whilst  "  Lovel "   mused 

alone ; 
For  once  "  Miss  Wardour's "  image  left  that  bosom's  faithful 

throne. 

With  coronach  and  arms  reversed  forth  came  "  MacGregor's " 

clan, 
Eed  "Dougal's"  cry  pealed  shrill  and  wild,  "  Eob  Eoy's  "  bold 

brow  looked  wan. 
The  pale  "  Diana  "  kissed  her  cross,  and  blessed  its  sainted  ray  ; 
And  "  Wae  is  me,"  the  "Bailie"  sighed,  "that  I  should  see  this 

day!" 

Next  rode  in  melancholy  guise,  with  sombre  vest  and  scarf, 
Sir  Edward,  Laird  of  Ellieslaw,  the  far  renowned  "  Black  Dwarf." 
Upon  his  left,  in  bonnet  blue,  and  white  locks  flowing  free, 
The  pious  sculptor  of  the  grave,  stood  "Old  Mortality." 

"  Balfour  of  Burley,"  "  Claverhouse,"  the  "  Lord  of  Evandale," 
And  stately  "  Lady  Margaret,"  whose  woe  might  nought  avail ; 


A    CHARADE.  223 

Fierce  "Bothwell"  on  his  charger  black,  as  from  the  conflict 

won, 
A.nd  pale  "  Hebakuk  Muckiewrath,"  who  cried,  "  God's  will  be 

done ! " 

Still  onward  like  the  gathering  night  advanced  that  funeral  train. 
Like  billows  when  the  tempest  sweeps  across  the  shadowy  main  ; 
Where'er  the  eager  gaze  might  reach  in  noble  ranks  were  seen 
Dark  plume  and  glittering  mail  and  crest,  and  woman's  beau- 
teous mien. 

A.  sound  thrilled  through  the  lengthening  host ;  methought  the 

vault  was  closed 
Where  in  his  glory  and  renown  fair  Scotia's  bard  reposed. 
A.  sound  thrilled  through  that  lengthening  host ;  and  forth  my 

vision  fled ; 
But,  ah,  that  mournfiil  dream  proved  true,  —  the  immortal  Scott 

was  dead. 

Charles  Swain. 


A   CHARADE. 

It  is  said  to  have  been  sent  some  years  ago  in  a  blank  cover  to  Queen  Adelaide. 
She  attributed  the  lines  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  enclosed  them  to  him  ;  but  his 
answer  was  that  he  had  never  written  anything  half  so  gooil.  The  author  is  still 
unknown. 

Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agincourt,  — 

Sooth,  't  was  a  dreadful  day ; 
And  though  in  those  old  days  of  sport 
The  rufflers  of  the  camp  and  court 

Found  little  time  to  pray, 
'T  is  said  Sir  Hilary  uttered  there 
Two  syllables  in  form  of  prayer : 


--^^  SEASONS  HAVE  PASSED  AWAY. 

My  First  for  all  the  brave  and  proud 

Who  see  to-morrow's  sun ; 
My  jVcxt,  with  its  cold,  quiet  cloud, 
To  those  who  find  a  dewy  shroud 

Before  the  day  be  done  : 
My  "iVhole  for  those  whose  bright  blue  eyes 
Weep  when  a  warrior  nobly  dies. 


SEASONS   HAVE   PASSED   AWAY. 

Seasons  have  passed  away 

Since  last  we  met : 
Springs  have  to  summers  blushed, 
Summers  on  autumn  rushed, 
Autumns  fallen,  winter  crushed  ; 

Love  bloometh  yet. 

Kingdoms  have  passed  away 

Since  last  we  met : 
See  from  the  thrones  of  pride 
Monarchs  like  spectres  glide ; 
Love's  laws  do  still  abide, 

Love  reigneth  yet. 

Dear  ones  have  passed  away. 

Since  last  we  met : 
Brother  and  friend  have  gone, 
Heart  of  twin  heart  is  shorn ; 
Love  laugheth  death  to  scorn, 
Love  liveth  yet. 

Mrs.  Howe. 
Suii"  bv  H.  C.  B. 


SUN  AND   SHADOW.  225 


CHAKADE. 

My  FiJ^st,  beloved  of  many  an  ancient  dame, 
Within  my  Next  from  Eastern  countries  came. 
0  fragrant  JVhole,  of  which  each  forms  a  part, 
Thou  art  not  science,  but  thou  teachest  art. 

(Te^( -chest.) 
Bishop  Williams. 
Fiist  heard  at  our  friend's,  Charles  B.  Sedgewick,  Sykacuse. 


SUN   AND   SHADOW. 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen. 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way. 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar ; 
How  little  he  cares  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  from  the  shore ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee. 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind-wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim,  vaulted  caves 
Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
15 


226  A   NATIONAL   SONG   OF   TRIUMPH. 

The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade ; 
Yet  true  to  our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before. 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  liark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore. 

Holmes. 
Written  in  the  northeast  lower  room  of  the  Naushon  Mansion  House. 


A   NATIONAL   SONG   OF   TEIUMPH. 

Written  for,  and  sung  at,  a  large  social  meeting  of  friends,  who  met  by  aj)point- 
nientat  Young's  Tavern,  Edinburgh,  to  celebrate  the  entry  of  the  Allies  into  Paris 
in  1814. 

Now,  Britain,  let  thy  cliffs  o'  snaw 

Look  prouder  o'er  the  marled  main ; 
The  bastard  Eagle  bears  awa', 

An'  ne'er  shall  ee  thy  shores  again. 
Come,  bang  thy  banners  to  the  wain, 

The  struggle 's  past,  the  prize  is  won ; 
Well  may  thy  Lion  shake  his  mane. 

And  turn  his  gray  beard  to  the  sun. 

Lang  hae  I  bragged  o'  thine  an'  thee, 

E'en  when  thy  back  was  at  the  wa' ; 
^ow  thou  my  proudest  sang  shalt  be, 

As  lang  as  I  hae  breath  to  draw. 
Where  now  the  coofs  who  boded  woe, 

And  coldness  o'er  our  efforts  threw  ? 
An'  where  the  proudest,  fellest  foe, 

Frae  hell's  black  porch  that  ever  flew  ? 

Oh,  he  might  conquer  feckless  kings, — 
Those  bars  in  Nature's  onward  plan,  — 


OUR   ISLAND   CHRISTMAS  EVE.  227 

But  fool  is  he  the  yoke  that  flings 

O'er  the  unshackled  soul  of  man. 
'T  is  like  a  cobweb  on  his  breast, 

That  binds  the  giant  while  asleep ; 
Or  curtain  hung  upon  the  east 

The  daylight  from  the  world  to  keep. 

Here  's  to  the  hands  sae  long  upbore, 

The  Rose  and  Shamrock,  blooming  still ; 
An'  here  's  the  burly  plant  of  yore, 

The  Tliistle  of  the  Norlan'  hill ! 
Lang  may  auld  Britain's  banners  pale 

Stream  o'er  the  seas  her  might  has  won ; 
Lang  may  her  Lions  paw  the  gale 

An'  turn  their  dewlaps  to  the  sun. 

James  Hogg. 
A  great  favorite  of  Governor  Swain,   upon  whose  lips  it  often  was.     Taken 
from  a  copy  furnished  by  Governor  J.  H.  Clifford,  of  New  Bedford. 


OUR   ISLAND   CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

The  song  bird  has  flown  from  our  sea-girded  isle, 
And  the  greenwood  once  vocal  is  silent  and  sear; 

The  sun  has  withdrawn  from  the  heaven  his  smile, 
And  deep  in  his  covert  lies  hid  the  red  deer. 

O'er  the  desert  is  sweeping  the  bleak  wintry  blast. 

And  the  rocks,  they  are  frosted  with  wind-driven  foam ; 

But  the  sailor,  light-hearted,  his  anchor  well-cast. 

In  the  Cove's  friendly  shelter  sleeps  dreaming  of  home. 

From  tree-arch  and  column  moss-garlands  are  waving. 
Like  the  ivy  that  droops  on  the  gray  minster  wall. 

While  the  moon  through  the  cloud-rifts  with  silver  is  paving 
The  dim  forest-aisles  like  a  festival  hall. 


228  THE   GATHERING   OF   THE   HAYS. 

And,  hark !  what  rare  music  swells  around  us  and  o'er  us, 
As  thougli  on  the  wings  of  the  breezes  were  borne  ! 

'T  is  the  winds  and  the  waves  join  their  voices  in  chorus, 
To  hail  with  fit  anthem  the  glad  Christmas  morn. 

The  starlight  that  shone  over  Bethlehem's  plain, 
And  guided  the  shepherds  to  Mary's  sweet  boy, 

To-night  sheds  its  radiant  blessing  again. 

And  fills  the  poor  heart  with  a  treasure  of  joy. 

Captain  Clarke. 


THE  GATHERING   OF   THE   HAYS. 

GATHERING. 

"  Mag  Garadh  !  Mac  Garadh  !  red  race  of  the  Tay, 

Ho  !  gather  ho  !  gather  like  hawks  to  the  prey. 
Mac  Garadh,  Mac  Garadh,  Mac  Garadh,  come  fast ; 

The  flame 's  on  the  beacon,  the  horn  's  on  the  blast. 
The  standard  of  Errol  unfolds  its  white  breast, 

And  the  falcon  of  Loncartie  stirs  in  her  nest. 
Come  away,  come  away,  come  to  the  tryst. 

Come  in,  Mac  Garadh,  from  east  and  from  west. 

Mac  Garadh  !  Mac  Garadh !  Mac  Garadh,  come  forth ! 

Come  from  your  bowers  from  south  and  from  north, 
Come  in  all  Gowrie,  Kinnoul,  and  Tweeddale, 

Drumelzier  and  Naughton,  come  locked  in  your  mail. 
Come,  Stuart,  come,  Stuart,  set  up  thy  white  rose ; 

Killour  and  Buccleuch,  bring  thy  bills  and  thy  bows ; 
Come  in,  Mac  Garadh,  come  armed  for  the  fray, — 

Wide  is  the  war-cry,  and  dark  i'^  the  day. 


THE   GATHERING   OF   THE  HAYS.  229 

QUICK    MARCH. 

The  Hay  !  the  Hay  1  the  Hay  !  the  Hay  ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coining,  give  way  !  give  way  ! 
The  Hay  !  the  Hay  !  the  Hay  !  the  Hay  ! 

Mac  G-aradh  is  coming,  give  way ! 
Mac  Garadh  is  commg,  clear  the  way  ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  hurra,  hurra ! 
Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  clear  the  way ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  hurra  ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming  like  beam  of  war ; 

The  blood-red  shields  are  glintmg  far ; 
The  Stuart  is  up,  his  banner  white 

Is  Hung  to  the  breeze  like  flake  of  light. 
Dark  as  the  mountain's  heather  wave. 

The  rose  and  the  thistle  are  coming  brave. 
Bright  as  the  sun  which  gilds  its  thread, 

King  James'  tartan  is  flashing  red. 
Upon  them,  Mac  Garadh,  bill  and  bow  ; 

Cry,  Holleu,  Mac  Garadh  !  holleu,  holleu  !. 

CHARGE. 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming !  like  stream  from  the  hill, 
Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  lance,  claymore,  and  bill ! 

Like  thunder's  wide  rattle, 

Is  mingled  the  battle. 
With  cry  of  the  falling  and  shout  of  the  charge ; 

The  lances  are  Hashing, 

The  claymores  are  clashing. 
And  ringing  the  arrows  on  buckler  and  targe. 

BATTLE. 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming  !  the  banners  are  shaking, 
The  war-tide  is  turning,  the  phalanx  is  breaking, 


230  THE  JACOBITE'S  PLEDGE.  » 

The  Southrons  are  flying, 

"Saint  (Jeurge"  vainly  crying, 
And  Brunswick's  white  horse  on  the  field  is  borne  down ; 

The  red  cross  is  shattered, 

The  red  roses  scattered, 
And  bloody  and  torn  the  white  plume  in  its  crown. 

PURSUIT. 

Far  shows  the  dark  field  like  the  streams  of  Cairn  Gorm, 
Wild,  broken,  and  red  in  the  skirt  of  the  storm  ; 
Give  the  spur  to  the  steed, 

Give  the  war-cry  its  holleu, 
Cast  loose  to  wild  speed, 

Shake  the  bridle  and  follow. 
The  rout's  in  the  battle, 

Like  blast  in  the  cloud  ; 
The  flight's  mingled  rattle 
Peals  thickly  and  loud. 
Then  holleu,  Mac  Garadh !  holleu,  Mac  Garadh ! 
Holleu,. holleu,  holleu,  Mac  Garadh! 

Anonymous. 


THE   JACOBITE'S   PLEDGE. 

Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa'. 

Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa' ; 

Here  's  a  health  to  him  that  was  here  yestreen, 

But  durstna  bide  till  day. 

Oh,  wha  winna  drink  it  dry  ? 

Oh,  wha  winna  drink  it  dry  ? 

Wlia  winna  drink  to  the  lad  that 's  gane. 

Is  nane  o'  our  company. 


THE   CHANGE.  231 

Let  him  be  swung  on  a  tree, 

Let  him  Lc  swung  on  a  tree ; 

Wha  winna  drmk  to  the  lad  that 's  gane, 

Can  ne'er  be  the  man  for  me. 

It 's  good  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It 's  good  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It 's  good  to  be  aff  wi'  the  auld  king 

Afore  we  be  on  wi'  the  new. 

ANONYMOrS. 


THE   CHANGE. 

Star  of  the  twilight  gray. 

Where  wast  thou  blinking, 
When  in  the  olden  day, 

Eve  dim  was  sinking  ? 
"  O'er  knight  and  baron's  hall. 

Turret  and  tower, 
O'er  fell  and  forest  tall, 

Green  brake  and  bower." 

Star  of  the  silver  eve, 

What  hast  thou  noted, 
While  o'er  the  tower  and  tree 

High  hast  thou  floated  ? 
"  Blue  blades  and  bonnet  gear, 

Plaids  lightly  dancing, 
Lairs  of  the  dun  deer, 

And  shafts  dimly  glancing." 

Star  of  the  maiden's  dream, 
Star  of  the  gloaming. 


232  GATHERING   OF  ATHOL. 

Where  now  doth  bhnk  thy  beam, 
When  owls  are  roaming  ? 

"  Where  in  the  baron's  hall 
Green  moss  is  creeping, 

Where  o'er  the  forest's  fall 
Gray  dew  is  weeping." 

Star  of  the  even  still, 

What  now  doth  meet  thee, 
When  from  the  lonely  hill 

Looks  thy  blink  sweetly  ? 
"  Hearths  in  the  wind  bleached  bare, 

Eoofs  in  earth  smouldered. 
Sheep  on  the  dun  deer's  lair. 

Trees  felled  and  mouldered." 


Akoxymous. 


GATHEPJNG   OF   ATHOL. 

Wha  will  ride  wi'  gallant  Murray  ? 

Wha  will  ride  wi'  Geordie's  sel"  ? 
He  's  the  flow'r  o'  a'  Glen  Isla, 

And  the  darlin  o'  Dunkel'. 
See  the  white  rose  in  his  bonnet ! 

See  his  banner  o'er  the  Tay  ! 
His  gude  sword  he  now  has  drawn  it, 

And  has  flung  the  sheath  away. 

Every  faithful  Murray  follows ; 

First  of  heroes,  best  of  men ! 
Every  true  and  trusty  Stewart 

Blythely  leaves  his  native  glen. 
Athol  lads  are  lads  of  honor, 

Westland  rogues  are  rebels  a' : 


O'ER    THE    WATER    TO   CHARLIE.  233 

When  we  come  within  their  border, 
We  may  gar  the  Campbells'  claw. 

Menzies,  he  's  our  friend  and  brother; 

Gask  and  Strowan  are  nae  slack ; 
Noble  Perth  has  ta'en  the  field, 

And  a'  the  Drummonds  at  his  back. 
Let  us  ride  wi'  gallant  Murray, 

Let  us  fight  for  Charlie's  crown ; 
From  the  right  we  '11  never  sinder, 

Till  we  bring  the  tyrants  down. 

Mackintosh,  the  gallant  soldier, 

Wi'  the  Grahams  and  Gordons  gay, 
They  have  ta'en  the  field  of  honor, 

Spite  of  all  their  chiefs  could  say. 
Bend  the  musket,  point  the  rapier. 

Shift  the  brog  for  Lowland  shoe. 
Scour  the  durk,  and  face  the  danger : 

Mackintosh  has  all  to  do. 

Anoxymous. 


O'ER   THE  WATER   TO   CHARLIE. 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er, 

Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie ; 
I  '11  gie  John  Ross  anither  bawbee 
To  ferry  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 

We  '11  o'er  the  water,  we  '11  o'er  the  sea, 

We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie  ; 
Come  weel,  come  wo,  we  '11  gather  and  go, 
And  live  or  die  wi'  Charlie. 


234  HOME,   SWEET  HOME. 

It 's  weel  I  lo'e  my  Charlie's  name, 
Though  some  there  be  abhor  him ; 

But,  oh,  to  see  auld  Nick  gauii  hame. 
And  Charlie's  faes  before  him. 
We  '11  o'er  the  water,  &c. 

I  swear  by  moon  and  starns  sae  bright, 

And^un  that  glances  early. 
If  I  had  twenty  thousand  lives, 

I  'd  gie  them  a'  for  Charlie. 
We  '11  o'er  the  water,  &c. 

I  ance  had  sons,  but  now  hae  nane : 

I  bred  them  toiling  sairly  ; 
And  I  wad  bear  them  a'  again. 
And  lose  them  a'  for  Charlie. 

We  '11  o'er  the  water,  we  '11  o'er  the  sea, 

We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charhe  ; 
Come  weel,  come  wo,  we  '11  gather  and  go, 
And  live  or  die  wi'  Charlie. 

Anokymous. 


HOME,   SWEET   HOME. 

'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there  's  no  place  like  home ! 

A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there. 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere, 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There 's  no  place  like  home. 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain, 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again ; 


OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME.  235 

The  birds,  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my  call ;  — 

( live  me  them,  and  the  peace  of  mind  dearer  than  all. 

Home,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There 's  no  place  like  home. 

John  Howard  Payne. 

I  iMTsonally  knew  Mr.  Payne  in  New  Yoiik  during  1837,  when  with  quaint 
cynicism,  during  the  panic  of  tliat  year,  he  remarked  to  me,  "I  bear  the  misfor- 
tunes of  my  lei  low-creatures  with  the  same  philosophy  which  they  have  always 
shown  towards  mine." 


OLD   FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

Way  down  upon  de  Swannee  Eibber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dare 's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber,  — 

Dare 's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 

Sadly  I  roam ; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 
All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 

Eb'rywhere  I  roam  ; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary. 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered. 

When  I  was  young ; 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered. 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I ; 
Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder. 
Dare  let  me  live  and  die. 


-!36  A    LIFE   ON   riJE   OCEAN   WA  VE 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 

Eb'rywliere  I  roam ; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary. 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 

One  dat  I  love, 
Still  sadly  to  my  mem'ry  rushes. 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a  humming 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 
All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 

Eb'rywhere  I  roam ; 
Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  gi'ows  weary. 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home  ! 

Stephen  C.  Foster. 


A   LIFE   ON   THE   OCEAN   WAVE. 

A  LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep. 
Like  an  eagle  cage'd  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore : 
Oh,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar. 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand, 
Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft : 

Set  sail,  —  farewell  to  the  land  ; 
The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 


SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT.  237 

We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam, 

Like  an  ocean  bird  set  free, — 
Like  the  ocean  bird,  our  home 

We  '11  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view. 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown ; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew. 

We  '11  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down. 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea, 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave. 

Epes  Sargent. 
A  favorite  Island  song. 


SPAEKLING  AND   BRIGHT. 

Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light, 

Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in ; 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Oh  if  mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions. 
We  here  awhile  would  now  beguile 

The  graybeard  of  his  pinions  ! 
So  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  light. 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker  s  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


238  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

But  since  Delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  llegret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 

Nor  sober  Friendship  stay  him, 
We  '11  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Chakles  Fenxo  Hoffman. 
Will's  song  ;  a  favorite  Island  song. 


ANNIE   LAURIE. 

Maxwelton  braes  are  bonnie 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it 's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gie'd  me  her  promise  true,  — 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true. 

Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift ; 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan ; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on,  — 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on,  — 

And  dark  blue  is  her  ee ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee. 

Like  the  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 
Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 


« 


COME,  BRAVE    WITH  ME    THE   SEA.  239 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet,  — 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she  's  a'  the  world  to  me ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee. 

Douglas  of  Fixglaxd. 
Sung  by  C.  W.  .□. 

COME,   BEAVE   WITH   ME   THE   SEA. 

Aiu:  "  Suoni  la  Tromba." 

Come,  brave  with  me  the  sea,  love, 

The  empire  of  the  free,  love  ! 

There  shalt  thou  dwell  with  me,  love, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ! 
Come,  hasten  with  me  there,  love. 
While  yet  the  wind  is  fair,  love, 
Where  sparkling  billows  foam,  love, 
Where  fate  may  bid  us  roam,  love. 
My  ship  shall  be  thy  home,  love. 

And  thou  a  sailor's  bride! 

Though  fair  the  earth  may  be,  love, 
It  is  not  like  the  sea,  love. 
When  soars  the  spirit  free,  love, 

As  o'er  its  breast  we  ride. 
Come  then,  dwell  with  me  there,  love. 
Come,  while  the  wind  is  fair,  love, 
Wliere  sparkling  billows  foam,  love, 

So  boundless  and  so  wide  ; 
With  me  all  danger  dare,  love, 

As  should  a  sailor's  bride. 

AXOXYMOUS. 

This  air  has  always  been  a  favorite  of  mine  ever  since  I  first  heard  Badialm 
sing  it  in  the  opera  of  "  I  Puritani."  The  band  of  the  First  Massachusetts  Cavalry 
also  played  it  with  great  eft'cct  in  South  Carolina  duiing  the  war. 


240 


THE  DISASTER. 


0   PESCATOR   DELL'    ONDE. 

O  TESCATOR  deir  onde  Fidelin, 

0  pescator  dell'  onde  Fidelin, 

Viene  pescar  in  qua  colla  bella  sua  barca, 

Colla  bella  se  ne  va,  Fidelin. 

Non  voglio  cento  scudi  Fidelin, 
Non  voglio  cento  scudi  Fidelin, 
Ne  borsa  ricama  colla  bella  sua  barca, 
Colla  bella  se  ne  va,  Fidelin. 

lo  voun  bazin  d'  ainore  Fidelin, 

lo  voun  bazin  d'  amore  Fidelin, 

Che  qual  mi  paghera  colla  bella  sua  bocca, 

Colla  bella  se  ne  v^,  Fidelin. 

Anonymous,  Popular  Venetian  Somj. 

Sun"  bv  Mrs.  Russell  Sturgis  at  Macao. 


I 


THE   DISASTER. 

He  wandered  through  the  briery  woods. 

And  through  the  tangled  fern, 
And  tore  his  must  n't  mention  'ems, 

And  had  to  put  on  hern. 

Anonymous. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  party  of  young  Boston  men  who  in  their  city  clothes 
were  taken  through  the  Blue  Hill  briers  after  quail.  Retaining  home,  one 
of  them  disappeared  and  was  found  in  the  stable  mending  his  torn  garment, 
being  too  modest  to  ask  any  one  to  do  it  for  him.  His  name  was  N.  H.  or 
G.  R.  M. 


HOME  BY   THE   SEA.  241 


HOME   BY   THE   SEA. 

Oh,  give  me  a  home  by  the  sea, 

Where  the  white  waves  are  crested  with  foam, 
Where  the  shrill  winds  are  carolling  free, 

As  o'er  the  wild  waters  I  roam. 
For  I  '11  list  to  ocean's  wild  roar 
And  join  in  its  stormiest  glee. 
Nor  ask  in  the  wide  world  for  more 
Than  a  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 
A  home,  a  home, 
A  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 

A  home,  a  home, 
A  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea. 

At  morn,  when  the  sun  from  the  east 

Comes  mantled  with  purple  and  gold, 
Whose  hues  on  the  billows  are  cast. 

Which  sparkle  with  splendor  untold, 
Oh,  then,  by  the  shore  would  I  stray. 

And  roam  as  the  halcyon,  free. 
From  envy  and  care  far  away, 

In  my  home  l)y  the  deep  rolling  sea, 
A  home,  a  home,  &c. 

At  eve,  when  the  moon  in  her  pride 
Eides  queen  of  the  soft  summer  night. 

And  gleams  on  the  murmuring  tide, 
With  floods  of  her  silvery  light, 

Oh,  earth  has  no  beauty  so  rare, 
No  place  that  is  dearer  to  me ; 
16 


242         YE  BAXKS  AXD  BRAES   0'  BONNIE   DOON. 

Then  give  me,  so  free  and  so  fair, 

A  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 

A  home,  a  home,  &c. 

Anonymous. 

Sung  by  S.  J.  on  the  "  Rambler,"  in  a  gale  of  wind,  holding  on  to  the  shrouds 
the  little  yacht  under  close  reefs. 


YE  BANKS  AND  BEAES  0'  BONNIE  DOON. 

Tune  :   "  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  ? 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 
An'  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care  ? 

Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  ; 

Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys,  — 
Departed,  never  to  return. 

Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang. 

And  wistna  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine ; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love. 
And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

AVi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 

And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose. 

But,  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Burns. 
M.  P.  F. 


i 


BRIGNALL  BANKS.  243 


BEIGNALL  BANKS. 

Oh,  Brignall  bank.s  f\ro  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily,  — 

CHORUS. 

"  Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." 

"  If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we, 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down  ? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read. 

As  read  full  well  you  may. 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed. 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May." 

CHORUS. 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green  ; 
I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." 


244         .  BRIGNALL  BANKS. 

"  With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  yon  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum."  — 
"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum. 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

CHORUS. 

"And,  oh,  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair. 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May. 

"  Maiden,  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I  '11  die ; 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 

Were  better  mate  than  I. 
And  when  I  'm  with  my  comrades  met. 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
Wliat  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 

CHORUS. 

"  Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green,  * 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 


Scott,  Rokeby. 
A  favorite  of  il.  P.  F, 


WHILE    THEE   1   SEEK.  245 


THE   BLUE   JUNIATA. 

Wild  roved  an  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata, 
Wliere  sweep  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juniata ; 

Swift  as  an  antelope,  through  the  forest  going. 

Loose  were  her  jetty  locks,  in  wavy  tresses  flowing. 

Gay  was  the  mountain  song  of  bright  Alfarata, 
Where  sweep  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juniata : 

"  Strong  and  true  my  arrows  are,  in  my  painted  quiver ; 
Swift  goes  my  light  canoe  adown  the  rapid  river." 

So  sang  the  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata, 

Where  sweep  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juniata. 

Fleeting  years  have  borne  away  the  voice  of  Alfarata ; 
Still  sweeps  the  river  on,  the  blue  Juniata. 

Mrs.  M.  D.  Sullivan. 

WHILE   THEE   I   SEEK. 

While  thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power! 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled  ; 
And  may  this  consecrated  hour 

With  better  hopes  be  filled. 

Thy  love  the  powers  of  thought  bestowed  ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts  would  soar ; 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flowed. 

That  mercy  I  adore  !. 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see ! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  more  dear, 

Because  conferred  by  thee. 


246  FREEDOM   OF  THE  MIND. 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days. 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  hi  praise. 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favored  hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Eesigned  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower, 
My  soul  shall  meet  thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye  without  a  tear 
The  gathering  storm  shall  see  ; 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear ; 
That  heart  shall  rest  on  thee  ! 

H.  M.  Williams. 


FREEDOM   OF   THE   MIND. 

High  walls  and  huge  the  hody  may  confine. 

And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze. 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways ; 
Yet  scorns  th'  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 

And,  in  a  flash,  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount,  —  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers  ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale. 

Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours : 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar. 

And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star ! 

William  Lloyd  Garrison. 
Baltimore  Jail,  1830. 


I 


SHAKSPEAliE'S  EPITAPH.  247 


TELL   HER    I'LL   LOVE   HER. 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  while  the  clouds  drop  ram, 

Or  while  there  's  water  in  the  pathless  main  ; 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  till  this  life  is  o'er, 

And  then  my  ghost  shall  visit  this  sweet  shore,— 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  till  this  life  is  o'er, 

And  then  my  ghost  shall  visit  this  sweet  shore. 

Tell  her  I  only  ask  she  '11  think  of  me, 
1  '11  love  her  while  there  's  salt  within  the  sea ; 
Tell  her  all  this,  tell  it,  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  '11  love  her  while  there 's  salt  within  the  sea  ; 
Tell  her  all  this,  tell  it,  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er  : 
The  anchor 's  weiyhed,  or  I  would  tell  her  more. 


SHAKSPEARE'S   EPITAPH. 

Good  frend  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 
To  digg  the  dust  enclosed  heare  ; 
Bleste  be  ye  man  yt  spares  these  stones. 
And  curst  be  he  yt  moves  my  bones. 

Attributed  to  Shakspeare. 


248  HOME. 


HOME. 


No,  it  is  not  a  poet's  dream. 

It  does  not  live  in  thought  alone ; 

For  here,  by  Housatonic's  stream. 
Home,  as  she  wrote  of  it,  is  known. 

Here,  where  round  every  rock  and  peak 
Clings  some  tradition  dim  and  hoary, 

And  every  valley  seems  to  speak 

Of  the  lost  Indian's  pride  and  glory  ; 

Where  the  pure  mists  long  linger  nigh, 
Like  guardian  Naiads  to  the  rills, 

And  the  vast  shades  flit  silently. 
As  giant  spectres,  o'er  the  hills  ; 

Where  neither  slaves  nor  nobles  bend. 
But  all  in  love  aid  one  another ; 

Where  every  stranger  is  a  friend. 
And  every  honest  man  a  brother ; 

Where  all  gives  proof  of  woman's  power, 
The  might  of  nature,  not  of  art ; 

And  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour. 
Heart  clingeth  closer  still  to  heart. 

Here  is  a  home,  a  home  in  truth,  — 
One  that  can  chase  away  the  ills 

Of  age,  and  lend  new  joy  to  youth  ; 
A  holy  home  among  the  hills. 


LETTER    OF  FRANKLIN   TO  MR.   STRAHAN.        249 

Here  may  we  see  a  stronger  bond 

Than  interest,  ambition,  pelf, 
Which,  reaching  to  the  world  beyond, 

Still  makes  a  world  within  itself. 

For  though  to  few  the  power  is  given 

To  guide,  to  govern,  or  to  move. 
Yet  unto  each  all-bounteous  Heaven 

Holds  out  the  Godlike  power  to  love. 

Long  may  that  flame  within  us  burn. 
As  here  each  bounding  heart  it  lills, 

Although  we  never  should  return 
To  this  sweet  home  among  the  hills. 

James  Handasyd  Perkins. 

Stockbridge,  August,   1836.     Written  on  hearing  some  one  say  that  there 
were  no  such  homes  as  Catherine  M.  Sedgwick  describes  in  her  "Home." 


A   LETTER   OF   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN   TO 
MR.   STRAHAN. 

Philadelphia,  July  5,  1775. 

Mr.  Strahan,  —  You  are  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  one 
of  that  majority  which  has  doomed  my  Country  to  Destruction. 
You  have  begun  to  burn  our  towns  and  murder  our  people. 
Look  upon  your  hands!  they  are  stained  with  the  blood  of 
your  relations  !  You  and  I  were  long  friends  ;  you  are  now  my 
Enemy,  and  I  am 

Yours,  B.  Franklin. 


250  SPIRITii    WHICH  HOVER   ROUND. 


SPTEITS   WHICH   HOVER   ROUND. 

Spirits  which  hover  round  me,  ye  whose  wings 

Beat  back  the  tempter,  whose  sweet  presence  brings 

Calm,  gentle  feelings,  wishes  pure  and  kind, 

An  eye  for  all  God's  beauty,  and  a  mind 

Open  to  all  his  voices,  —  still  be  nigh 

When  the  great  mystery  his  broad  shadow  flings 

Over  earth's  firmest  visions,  till  they  fly 

Like  shadows  of  the  night,  and  teach  me  how  to  die ! 

When  my  breath  faileth  as  the  summer  air 
Dieth  at  evening ;  when  my  heart,  whose  care 
Jesus  hath  lightened,  throbs,  stops,  throbs  again. 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  ceases  without  pain 
Its  noiseless,  voiceless  labors,  —  still  be  nigh. 
Let  not  the  ghastly  form  of  Death  be  there  ; 
But  to  my  clouded,  yet  clear-seeing  eye. 
Reveal  your  forms  of  light  and  make  me  love  to  die. 

The  pinions  of  the  dark  and  dreaded  one 
Shall  not  then  fan  my  temples  ;  when  't  is  done, 
This  hard-fought  fight,  your  fingers  shall  untie 
My  earthward  l)onds,  your  voices  silently 
Whisper,  "  Come  home,  your  life  is  but  begun  ;  " 
And  in  your  arms  borne  upward,  far  on  high. 
With  mind  and  heart  grown  to  heavei^s  harmony, 
I  shall  know  all,  love  all,  and  find  't  is  life  to  die. 

Anonyhous. 

Copied  by  E.  P.  F. 


MR.   WEDDERBURN  ON  FRANKLIN.  251 


GAYLY   THE   TEOUBADOUR 

Gayly  the  Troubadour  touched  his  guitar, 
When  he  was  hastening  home  from  the  war ; 
SinCTinw,  "  From  Palestine  hither  I  come. 
Ladye  Love  !  Ladye  Love  !  welcome  me  home." 

She  for  the  Troubadour  hopelessly  wept, 
Sadly  she  thought  of  him  when  others  slept ; 
Singing,  "  In  search  of  thee  would  I  might  roam ! 
Troubadour  !  Troubadour  !  come  to  thy  home." 

Hark  !  't  was  the  troubadour  breathing  her  name, 
Under  the  battlement  softly  he  came ; 
Singing,  "  From  Palestine  hither  I  come. 
Ladye  Love  !  Ladye  Love  !  welcome  me  home." 

T.  H.  Bayly. 


MR.   WEDDERBURN   ON   ERANKLIN.i 

.  .  .  Here  is  a  man  who,  with  the  utmost  insensibility  of 
remorse,  stands  up  and  avows  himself  the  author  of  all.  I  can 
compare  it  only  to  Zanga  in  Dr.  Young's  "  Revenge,"  — 

"  Know  then  't  was  I  ; 
I  forged  tlie  letter,  I  disposed  the  picture  ; 
I  hated,  I  despised,  and  I  destroy." 

1  Benjamin  Franklin,  while  in  England  as  agent  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony, 
sent  home  the  famous  "  Hutchinson  letters."  On  learning  that  a  duel  had  been 
fought  on  account  of  the  supposed  responsibility  of  that  act,  he  published  a 
letter  stating  that  he  alone  was  responsible  for  the  letters  being  transmitted  to 
America.  The  above  extract  is  from  the  siieech  of  Mr.  Weddcrburn  in  the 
English  Trivy  Council  ;  referring  to  Fraukliu  and  his  avowed  connection  with 
that  transaction. 


252  I'VE  BEEN  ROAMING. 


MEET   ME    BY   MOONLIGHT. 

Meet  me  by  moonlight  alone, 

And  then  I  will  tell  yovi  a  tale, 
Must  be  told  by  the  moonlight  alone, 

In  the  grove  at  the  end  of  the  vale. 
You  must  promise  to  come,  for  I  said 

I  would  show  the  night  flowers  their  queen : 
Nay,  turn  not  away  that  sweet  head ; 

'Tis  the  loveliest  ever  was  seen  ! 

Daylight  may  do  for  the  gay, 

The  thoughtless,  the  heartless,  the  free; 
But  there 's  something  about  the  moon's  ray 

That  is  sweeter  to  you  and  to  me : 
Oh  !  remember,  be  sure  to  be  there, 

For  though  dearly  a  moonlight  I  prize, 
I  care  not  for  all  in  the  air. 

If  I  want  the  sweet  light  of  your  eyes. 

J.  A.  Wade. 


I'VE   BEEN   EOAMINa. 

I  'VE  been  roaming  where  the  meadow  dew  is  sweet, 
And  I  'm  coming  with  its  pearls  upon  my  feet ; 
I  've  been  roaming  o'er  the  rose  and  lily  fair. 
And  I  'm  coming  with  their  blossoms  m  my  hair. 

I  've  been  roaming  where  the  honeysuckle  creeps, 
And  I  'm  coming  with  its  kisses  on  my  lips ; 
I  've  been  roaming  over  hill  and  over  plain. 
And  I  'm  coming  to  my  bower  back  again. 

George  Soane. 


SHOULD  HE    UPBRAID.  253 


BEGONE!   DULL  CAEE. 


Begone  !  dull  care, 
I  prithee  begone  from  me, 

Begone !  dull  care. 
You  and  I  shall  never  agree. 
Long  time  hast  thou  been  tarrying  here, 

And  fain  thou  wouldst  me  kill. 
But  i'  faith,  dull  care. 

Thou  never  shalt  have  thy  will. 

Too  much  care 
Will  make  a  young  man  turn  gray, 

And  too  much  care 
Will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dance  and  I  will  sing, 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
For  I  hold  it  -one  of  the  wisest  things. 
To  drive  dull  care  away. 

Anonymous  (seventeenth  century). 
Sung  by  Dr.  Jennison. 


SHOULD   HE   UPBRAID. 

Should  he  upbraid,  I  '11  own  that  he  prevail, 
And  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  nightingale  ; 
Say  that  he  frown,  I  '11  say  his  looks  I  view 
As  morning  roses  newly  tipped  with  dew ; 
Say  he  be  mute,  I  '11  answer  with  a  smile. 
And  dance,  and  play,  and  wrinkled  care  beguile. 

Anonymous. 


254 


BID  ME  DISCOURSE. 


LULLABY   OF   AN   INFANT   CHIEF. 

Air:  "Cadul  gu  lo." 

Oh,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a  knight, 

Thy  mother  a  lady  both  lovely  and  bright ; 

The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers  which  we  see, 

They  all  are  belonging,  dear  babie,  to  thee. 

Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 

Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  &c. 

Oh,  fear  not  the  bugle,  though  loudly  it  blows ; 
It  calls  but  the  warders  that  guard  thy  repose. 
Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades  would  be  red. 
Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman  draws  near  to  thy  bed. 
Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  &c. 

Oh,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  the  time  soon  will  come 

When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trumpet  and  drum ; 

Then  hush  thee,  my  darling,  take  rest  while  you  may. 

For  strife  comes  with  manhood,  and  waking  with  day. 

Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  &c. 

Scott. 


BID   ME  DISCOURSE. 


Bid  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear, 

Or  like  a  fairy  trip  upon  the  green ; 
Or  like  a  nymph,  with  bright  and  flowing  hair, 

Dance  on  the  sands,  and  yet  no  footing  seen. 

Shakspeare,   Venus  and  Adonis. 


THE  BANKS   OF   THE  BLUE   MOSELLE.  '  255 


OH,   BID   YOUR   FAITHFUL  ARIEL   FLY. 

Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly- 
To  the  farthest  Indian  sky  ! 
And  then,  at  thy  afresh  command, 
I  '11  traverse  o'er  the  silver  sand, 
I'll  climb  the  mountains,  plunge  the  deep: 
I,  like  mortals,  never  sleep. 

I  '11  do  your  task,  whate'er  it  be. 
Not  with  ill  will,  but  merrily. 
Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly 
To  the  farthest  Indian  sky  ! 
And  then,  at  thy  afresh  command, 
I  '11  traverse  o'er  the  silver  sand. 

Anonymous. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  BLUE  MOSELLE. 

When  the  glow-worm  gilds  the  elfin  flower 

That  clings  round  the  ruined  shrine 
Where  first  we  met,  where  first  we  loved. 

And  I  confessed  me  thine, 
'T  is  there  I  '11  fly  to  meet  thee  still. 

At  sound  of  vesper  bell. 
In  the  starry  light  of  a  summer  night, 

On  the  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle. 

If  the  cares  of  life  should  shade  thy  brow, 
Yes,  yes,  in  our  native  bowers 

My  lute  and  heart  might  best  accord 
To  tell  of  happier  hours ; 


256  TITANIA'S   SONG. 

Yes,  there  I'll  soothe  thy  griefs  to  rest, 

Each  sigh  of  sorrow  quell, 
In  the  starry  light  of  a  summer  night, 

On  tlie  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle. 

Anonymous. 


TITANIA'S   SONG. 

Child  of  earth  with  the  golden  hair, 
Thy  soul 's  too  pure,  and  thy  face  too  fair, 
To  dwell  with  the  creatures  of  mortal  mould. 
Whose  lips  are  warm  as  their  hearts  are  cold. 

Eoam,  roam  to  our  fairy  home. 

Child  of  earth  with  the  golden  hair. 

I  '11  rob  of  its  sweets  the  bumblebee, 
I  '11  crush  the  wine  from  the  cowslip  tree, 
I  '11  pull  thee  berries,  I  '11  heap  thy  bed, 
Of  downy  moss  and  the  poppies  red. 
Eoam,  roam,  &c. 

Thou  shalt  dance  with  the  fairy  queen, 
Through  summer  nights  on  the  moonlit  green. 
To  music  murmuring  sweeter  far 
Than  ever  w^as  heard  'neath  the  mornmg's  star. 
Eoam,  roam,  &c. 

Dim  sleep  shall  woo  thee,  my  darling  boy, 
In  her  mildest  mood  with  dreams  of  joy ; 
And  when  the  morning  ends  her  reign. 
Pleasure  shall  bid  thee  welcome  again. 
Eoam,  roam,  &c. 

Anonymous. 


/  REMEMBER,   I  REMEMBER.  257 


FEOM   "THE   STABILITY   OF  SCIENCE." 

The  feeble  sea-birds,  blinded  in  the  storms, 
On  some  tall  light-house  dash  their  little  forms, 
And  the  rude  granite  scatters  for  their  pains 
Those  small  deposits  that  were  mea<it  for  brains. 
Yet  the  proud  fabric  in  the  morning's  sun 
Stands  all  unconscious  of  the  mischief  done  ; 
Still  the  red  beacon  pours  its  evening  rays 
For  the  lost  pilot  with  as  full  a  blaze, 
Nay,  shines,  all  radiance,  o'er  the  scattered  fleet 
Of  gulls  and  boobies  brainless  at  its  feet. 
I  tell  their  fate,  though  courtesy  disclaims 
To  call  our  kind  by  such  ungentle  names  ; 
Yet,  if  your  rashness  bid  you  vainly  dare, 
Think  of  their  doom,  ye  simple,  and  beware  ! 

0.  W.  Holmes. 


I   REMEMBER,   I   REMEMBER. 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

How  my  childhood  fleeted  by,  — 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 

And  the  warmth  of  its  July. 
On  my  brow,  love,  —  on  my  brow,  love, 

There  are  no  signs  of  care  ; 
But  my  pleasures  are  not  now,  love, 

What  childhood's  pleasures  were. 
17 


258  THOU  SOFT-FLOWING  AVON. 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers, 

Were  as  blithe  as  blithe  could  be. 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers, 

Were  coronals  for  me : 
Gems  to-night,  love,  —  gems  to-night,  love, 

Are  gleaming  in  my  hair ; 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love, 

As  childhood's  roses  were. 

I  was  singing,  I  was  singing, 

And  my  songs  were  idle  words ; 
But  from  my  heart  was  springing 

Wild  music  like  a  bird's  : 
Now  I  sing,  love,  —  now  I  sing,  love, 

A  fine  Italian  air ; 
But  it 's  not  so  fine  a  thing,  love, 

As  childhood's  ballads  were. 

I  was  merry,  I  was  merry, 

When  my  little  lovers  came. 
With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry. 

Or  a  new  invented  gaide: 
Now  I've  you,  love,  —  now  I've  you,  love, 

To  kneel  before  me  there; 
But  you  know  you  're  not  so  true,  love. 
As  childhood's  lovers  were. 

W.  M.  Praed. 


THOU   SOFT-FLOWING    AVON. 

Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream. 
Of  things  more  than  mortal  thy  Shakspeare  w^ould  dream ; 
The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  the  green  bed, 
Ft.r  liallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 


LOVE'S  RITORNELLA.  259 

The  love-stricken  maiden,  the  soft-sighing  swain. 
Here  rove  without  danger  and  sigh  without  pain ; 
The  sweet  hud  of  beauty  no  bligh^  shall  here  dread, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

Here  youth  shall  be  famed  for  their  love  and  their  tinth, 
And  cheerful  old  age  feel  the  spirit  of  youth ; 
For  the  raptures  of  fancy  here  poets  shall  tread, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  that  pillowed  his  head. 

Flow  on,  silver  Avon,  in  song  ever  flow ! 
Be  the  swans  on  thy  borders  still  whiter  than  snow ! 
Ever  full  be  thy  stream,  like  his  fame  may  it  spread, 
And  the  turf  ever  hallowed  which  pillowed  his  head ! 

David  (tArrtck.. 


LOVE'S   RITORNELLA. 

"  Gentle  Zitella,  whither  away  ? 

Love's  Ritornella,  list  while  I  play." 

"  No  !  I  have  lingered  too  long  on  the  road, 

Night  is  advancing,  the  brigand  's  abroad  ; 

Lonely  Zitella  hath  too  much  to  fear. 

Love's  Ritornella  she  may  not  hear." 

"  Charming  Zitella,  why  shouldst  thou  care  ? 
Night  is  not  darker  than  thy  raven  hair ; 
And  those  bright  eyes  if  the  brigand  should  see, 
Thou  art  the  robber,  the  captive  is  he. 
Gentle  Zitella,  banish  thy  fear : 
Love's  Ritornella  tarry  and  hear." 

Simple  Zitella,  beware !  oh,  beware  1 
List  ye  no  ditty,  grant  ye  no  prayer ! 


260  SOLDIER,  REST! 

To  your  light  footsteps  let  terror  add  wings, 
'T  is  Massaroni  himself  who  now  sings,  — 
"  Gentle  Zitella,  banish  thy  fear ; 
Love's  Eitornella  tarry  and  hear." 


J.  E,.  Planchk. 


SOLDIER,  REST! 

"  Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall. 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near ; 
Gruards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here  's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing. 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping." 

She  paused,  then  blushing  led  the  lay, 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day ; 


LEEZIE  LINDSAY.  261 

Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowhig  song, 
Till  to  her  lips,  in  measured  frame, 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

"  Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying,  — 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done  ; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun. 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye. 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 

Scott,  Lcuhj  of  the  ImIu. 
Repeated  with  great  effect  by  W.  S.  at  Swan  Island. 


LEEZIE   LINDSAY. 

"  Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielans,  Leezie  Lindsay  ? 

Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielans  wi'  me  ? 
Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielans,  Leezie  Lindsay, 

My  bride  and  my  darling  to  be  ? " 

"  To  gang  to  the  Hielans  wi'  you,  sir, 

I  dinna  ken  how  that  may  be ; 
For  I  ken  na  the  Ian'  that  ye  live  in, 

Nor  ken  I  the  lad  I  'm  gaun  wi' ! " 

"  0,  Leezie  lass,  ye  maun  ken  little 
If  sae  be  that  ye  dinna  ken  me ! 


262  LIVI-:    WITH  MK   AND   BE   MY  LOVE. 

My  name  is  Lord  Eoiiald  Mac  Donald, 
A  chieftain  o'  liigli  degree." 

Slie  has  kilted  her  coats  o'  green  satin, 

She  has  kilted  them  up  to  the  knee, 

And  she 's  aff  wi'  Lord  Eonald  Mac  Donald, 

His  bride  an'  his  darlin'  to  be. 

Anonymous. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  Long  and  by  Mr.  Angieu. 


LIVE   WITH   ME   AND   BE   MY   LOVE. 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yields. 
There  will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 
And  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses. 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool. 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 
A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 
The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight,  each  May  morning  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move. 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

Christopher  Marlowe. 


THE  LARK.  263 


THE   MINSTEEL'S  REQUEST. 

SuMiMEii  eve  is  goMe  and  past, 
Summer  dew  is  falling  fast : 
I  have  wandered  all  the  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray : 
Gentle  hearts  of  gentle  kin, 
Take  the  wandering  harper  in. 

I  have  song  of  war  for  knight, 
Lay  of  love  for  lady  bright, 
Fairy  tale  to  lull  the  heir, 
Goblin  grim  the  maids  to  scare : 
Dark  the  night,  and  long  till  day. 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray. 

Ancient  lords  had  fair  regard 
For  the  harp  and  for  the  bard : 
Baron's  race  throve  never  well 
Where  the  curse  of  minstrel  fell ; 
If  you  love  your  noble  kin, 
Take  the  weary  harper  in. 


Scott,  Rokeby. 


THE   LAEK. 

Bird  of  the  wilderness. 
Blithesome  and  cumberless. 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness. 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place,  — 

Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 


264  YE  GENTLEMEN  OF  ENGLAND. 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud. 
Far  ill  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 
Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 
Where  art  thou  journeying  ? 
'  Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  eartk 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen. 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green. 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day ; 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim. 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away  ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be. 

Emblem  of  happiness. 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place, — 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

Jamks  Ho«g. 


YE   GENTLEMEN   OF   ENGLAND. 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England, 

That  live  at  home  at  ease. 
Ah,  little  do  you  think  upon 

The  dangers  of  the  seas  ! 
Give  ear  unto  the  mariners, 

And  they  will  plainly  show 
All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

All  you  that  will  be  seamen 
Must  bear  a  valiant  heart, 


YE  GENTLEMEN   OF  ENGLAND.  265 

For  when  you  come  upon  the  seas, 

You  must  not  think  to  start : 
Nor  once  to  Ije  faint-hearted, 

In  rain,  hail,  blow,  or  snow, 
Nor  to  think  for  to  sVirink 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  lawyer  and  the  usurer. 

That  sit  in  gowns  of  fur, 
In  closets  warm  can  take  no  harm,  — 

Abroad  they  need  not  stir : 
When  winter  fierce  with  cold  doth  pierce, 

And  beats  with  hail  and  snow. 
We  are  sure  to  endure, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Then  courage,  all  brave  mariners, 

And  never  be  dismayed,  — 
Whilst  we  have  bold  adventurers. 

We  ne'er  shall  want  a  trade : 
Our  merchants  will  employ  us 

To  fetch  them  wealth,  I  know ; 
Then  be  bold,  —  work  for  gold. 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Wlien  tempests  are  blown  over, 

And  greatest  fears  are  past, 
In  weather  fair,  and  temperate  air, 

We  straight  lie  down  to  rest ; 
But  when  the  billows  tumble. 

And  waves  do  furious  grow, 
Then  we  rouse,  up  we  rouse, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


266  THE  DASHING    WHITE   SERGEANT. 

When  we  return  in  safety, 

With  wages  for  our  pains, 
The  tapster  and  the  vintner 

Will  help  to  share  our  gains : 
We  '11  call  for  liquor  roundly, 

And  pay  before  we  go; 
Then  we  '11  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Martyx  Parker. 
1  heard  this  sung  by  Admiral  Goldsboro'  when  he  was  a  Lieutenant. 


THE   DASHING   WHITE   SEEGEANT. 

If  I  had  a  beau. 

For  a  soldier  who  'd  go. 

Do  you  think  I  'd  say  no  ? 
No,  no,  not  I. 

When  his  red  coat  I  saw, 

Not  a  tear  would  it  draw ; 
But  I  'd  give  him  edat  for  his  bravery  ! 
If  an  army  of  Amazons  e'er  came  in  play, 
As  a  dashing  white  sergeant  I  'd  march  away. 

When  my  soldier  is  gone, 

Do  you  think  I  'd  take  on. 

Or  sit  moping  forlorn  ? 
No,  no,  not  I. 

His  fame  my  concern, 

How  my  bosom  would  burn. 
When  I  saw  him  return  crowned  with  victory ! 
If  an  army  of  Amazons  e'er  came  in  play, 
As  a  dashing  white  sergeant  I  'd  march  away. 

General  Burgoym': 


TOM  BOWLING. 


TOM   BOWLING. 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew  ; 
No  more  he  '11  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 
Faithful  below  he  did  his  duty, 

lint  now  he  's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed. 

His  virtues  were  so  rare ; 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted. 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair. 
And  then  he  'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly,  — 

Ah,  many 's  the  time  and  oft ! 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy. 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 
Sliall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together. 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  who.  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

In  vain  Tom's  life  has  doffed ; 
For,  though  his  body  's  under  hatclies, 

His  soul  has  gone  aloft. 

Charles  Dibdin. 

I  reuiember  J.  Howard,  of  Springfield,  singing  this. 


26S  THE   TWINS. 


THE   TWINS. 


In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb, 

I  grew  so  like  my  brother, 
That  folks  got  taking  me  for  him, 

And  each  for  one  another. 
It  puzzled  all  our  kith  and  kin, 

It  reached  a  fearful  pitch ; 
For  one  of  us  was  born  a  twin, 

And  not  a  soul  knew  which. 

One  day,  to  make  the  matter  worse. 

Before  our  names  were  fixed, 
As  we  were  being  washed  by  nurse, 

We  got  completely  mixed  ; 
And  thus,  you  see,  by  fate's  decree, 

Or  rather  nurse's  whim. 
My  brother  John  got  christened  me. 

And  I  got  christened  him. 

This  fatal  likeness  ever  dogged 

My  footsteps  when  at  school ; 
And  I  was  always  getting  flogged. 

When  John  turned  out  a  fool. 
I  put  this  question,  fruitlessly. 

To  every  one  I  knew  : 
"  What  would  you  do,  if  you  were  me, 

To  prove  that  you  were  you  ? " 

Our  close  resemblance  turned  the  tide 

Of  my  domestic  life, 
For  somehow  my  intended  bride 

Became  my  brother's  wife. 


SIGH  NO  MORE,  LADIES.  269 

In  fact,  year  after  year  the  same 

Absurd  mistakes  went  on  ; 
And  when  I  died,  the  neighbors  came 

And  buried  brother  John. 

Henry  S.  Leigh. 

One  of  Malcolm's  songs,  associated  with  the  intense  enjoyment  of  Mr.  Emku- 
S(iN.  who  could  never  laugh  long  enough  over  it. 


CEABBED   AGE  AND   YOUTH. 

Crabbed  age  and  youth  cannot  live  together : 

Youth  is  full  of  pleasance,  age  is  full  of  care ; 

Youth  like  summer  morn,  age  like  winter  weather ; 

Youth  like  summer  brave,  age  like  winter  bare ; 

Youth  is  full  of  sport,  age's  breath  is  short ; 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame ; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold,  age  is  weak  and  cold  ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame. 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee ;  youth,  I  do  adore  thee. 

Oh,  my  love,  my  love  is  young  ! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee.     Oh,  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

Shakspeare,  Passionate  Pilgnm. 


SIGH  NO   MORE,   LADIES. 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more  : 

Men  were  deceivers  ever. 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore ; 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 

Shakspeare, 
Much  Ado  about  Nothiiuj. 


270         THE    SOLDIER    TIRED   OF   WAR'S  ALARMS. 


THE   CAMPBELLS  ARE   COMIN'. 

(Traditioiiiil.) 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho  ! 

The  Campbells  are  comin'  to  boniiie  Lochleven ; 

The  Campbells  are  comm',  oho,  oho ! 

Upon  the  Lomonds  I  lay,  I  lay, 

I  looked  down  to  bonnie  Loclileven, 

And  saw  three  bonnie  perches  play. 

Great  Argyle,  he  goes  before ; 
He  makes  the  cannons  and  guns  to  roar. 
Wi'  sound  o'  trumpet,  pipe,  and  drum, 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho  ! 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  &c. 

The  Campbells  they  are  a'  in  arms. 
Their  loyal  faith  and  truth  to  show ; 
Wi'  banners  rattlin'  in  the  wind. 
The  Campbells  are  comin'  oho,  oho ! 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  &c. 


Anonymous. 


A  nursery  song  which  the  grandchildren  will  all  recognize. 


THE   SOLDIEE   TIRED   OF   WAR'S   ALARMS. 

The  soldier  tired  of  war's  alarms 
Forswears  the  clang  of  hostile  arms, 

And  scorns  the  spear  and  shield  ; 
But  if  the  brazen  trumpet  sound. 
He  burns  with  conquest  to  be  crowned, 

And  dares  again  the  field. 

ANONYMO08. 


THE   PARISH  PRIEST   TO  HIS  SUCCESSO/!.         271 


REQUIEM   FOR   A   YOUNG   SOLDIER. 

Bkeathe,  trumpets,  breathe  slow  notes  of  saddest  wailing ; 

Sadly  responsive  peal,  ye  muffled  drums! 
Comrades,  with  downcast  eyes  and  banners  trailing, 

Attend  him  home,  —  the  youtliful  warrior  comes. 

Upon  his  shield,  upon  his  shield  returning. 
Borne  from  the  field  of  honor  where  he  fell, 

Glory  and  Grief,  together  clasped  in  mourning, 
His  fame,  his  fate,  with  sobs  exulting  tell. 

Wrap  round  his  breast  the  flag  his  breast  defended. 
His  country's  flag,  in  battle's  front  enrolled : 

For  it  he  died ;  on  earth  forever  ended, 

His  brave  young  life  lives  in  each  sacred  fold. 

With  proud,  fond  tears,  by  tinge  of  shame  untainted, 

Bear  him,  and  lay  him  gently  in  his  grave  ; 
Above  the  hero  write,  —  the  young  balf-sainted,  — 
"  His  country  asked  his  life  ;  his  life  he  gave." 

George  Lunt. 
Referring  to  Captain  Shurtleff. 


THE   PARISH   PRIEST   TO   HIS   SUCCESSOR. 

If  thou  dost  find 

A  house  built  to  thy  mind 

Without  thy  cost, 
Serve  thou  the  more 
God  and  the  poor ; 

My  labor  is  not  lost. 

Hf.rbkrt. 


272  THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 

Our  bugles  sang  truce ;  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky, 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered,  — 
The  wcEiry  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain. 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track : 

'T  was  autumn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft. 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er. 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

"Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest;  thou  art  weary  and  worn." 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ; 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

Campbell, 


INCIDENT  OF   THE   FRENCH  CAMP.  273 


INCIDENT   OF   THE   FRENCH   CAMP. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Eatisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound.  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind. 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans, 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall. 
Let  once  my  army-leader,  Lannes, 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  tiew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed. 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through). 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Eatisbon  ! 
The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 

18 


274  HYMNE  DES  MARSEILLAIS. 

To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  ! "     The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed,  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"  You  're  wounded  ! "     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  ; 
"  I  'm  killed,  Sire  ! "     And,  his  chief  beside. 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

Robert  Browning. 


HYMNE  DES   MAESEILLAIS. 

Allons,  enfans  de  la  patrie, 

Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive. 

Contre  nous  de  la  tyrannic 

L'etendard  sanglant  est  leve, 

L'etendard  sanglant  est  leve. 

Entendez-vous  dans  les  campagnes 

Mugir  ces  f eroces  soldats  ? 

lis  viennent  jusque  dans  vos  bras 

Egorger  vos  fils,  vos  compagnes. 
Aux  armes,  citoyens !  formez  vos  bataillons : 
Marchez  !  marchez !  —  qu'un  sang  impur  abreu^'e  nos  sillons. 

Que  veut  cette  horde  d'esclaves, 
De  traitres,  de  rois  conjures  ? 
Pour  qui  ces  ignobles  entraves, 
Ces  fers,  des  longtemps  prepares  ? 


IIYMXE  DES  MARSEILLAIS.  275 

Franc^ais  —  pour  nous,  ah,  (j^uel  outrage  ! 
Quel  transports  il  doit  exciter  ! 
C'est  nous  qu'on  ose  menacer 
De  rendre  a  I'antique  esclavage. 
Aux  armes,  &c. 

Quoi !  des  cohortes  etrangeres 
Feraient  la  loi  dans  nos  foyers  ? 
Quoi !  ces  phalanges  inercenaires 
Terrasseraient  nos  fiers  guerriers, 
Grand  Dieu  !  par  des  mains  enchainees, 
Nos  fronts  sous  le  joug  se  ploieraient, 
De  vils  despotes  deviendraient, 
Les  maitres  de  nos  destinees. 
Aux  amies,  &c. 

Tremblez,  tyrans  !  et  vous,  perfides, 
L'opprobre  de  tons  les  partis  ; 
Tremblez  !  vos  projets  parricides 
Vont  enfin  recevoir  leur  prix. 
Tout  est  soldat  pour  vous  combattre  ; 
S'ils  tombent,  nos  jeunes  heros. 
La  France  en  produit  de  nouveaux 
Contre  vous  tons  prets  k  se  battre. 
Aux  armes,  &c. 

Franqais,  en  guerriers  magnamines, 
Portez  ou  retenez  vos  coups ; 
lilpargnez  ces  tristes  victimes 
A  regret  s'armant  contre  nous  ; 
Mais  le  despote  sanguinaire, 
Mais  les  complices  de  Bouilh'  — 
Tous  ces  tigres  qui,  sans  pitie, 
Dcchirent  le  sein  de  leur  mere  ! 
Aux  armes,  &c. 


276  MOURIR  POUR  LA   PA  TRIE. 

Amour  sacrc  de  la  patrie, 

Conduis,  soutieus  uos  bras  vengeurs! 

Libert  >',  Libertc  cherie, 

Combats  avec  tes  defenseurs  ! 

Sous  nos  drapeaux  que  la  victoire 

Accoure  k  tes  males  accens ; 

Que  tes  ennemis  expirans 

Voient  ton  triomphe  et  notre  gloire  ! 

Aux  amies,  citoyens!  formez  vos  bataillons  : 

Marchez  !  marchez  !  —  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 

EoDGET  DE  Lisle. 
Sung  by  W.  M.  H. 


MOUEIR  POUR   LA   PATRIE. 

Par  la  voix  du  canon  d'alarme. 

La  France  appelle  ses  enfants ; 
Allons,  dit  le  soldat,  aux  armes ; 

C'est  ma  mere,  je  la  defends. 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie, 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Nos  amis  qui  loins  des  batailles 

Succombent  dans  I'obscurit^ ; 
Voyons  du  moins  nos  funerailles, 

A  la  France  sa  liberte, 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie. 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie, 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Alexandre  Dumas. 
Sung  by  W.  M.  H. 


RULE,  BRITANNIA.  211 


RULE,   BRITANNIA. 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 

Arose  from  out  the  azure  main. 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land. 

And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain : 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall ; 
While  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all : 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke : 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves, 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame : 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 
But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine ; 


278  BALAKLAVA. 

All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
And  every  shore  it  cu-cles,  thine, 
liule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 
Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 
Blest  isle !  with  matchless  beauty  crowned. 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

James  Thomson. 


BALAKLAVA. 

They  gave  the  fatal  order,  —  Charge  ! 
And  so  the  Light  Brigade  went  down, 
Where  bristluig  brows  of  cannon  crown 
The  front  of  either  marge. 

Traced  all  in  fire  we  saw  our  way, 
And  the  black  goal  of  death  beyond,  — • 
It  was  no  moment  to  despond, 
To  question,  or  to  pray. 

Firm  in  the  saddle,  stout  of  heart, 
With  plume  and  sabre  waving  high, 
Witli  gathering  stride  and  onward  cry. 
The  Band  was  swift  to  start. 

They  took  the  field  with  solemn  eye  ; 
However  wild  the  deed  they  knew, 
However  who  so  bade  should  rue, 
Their  business  was,  to  die. 


BALAKLAVA.  279 

'T  was  the  old  gallant  English  blood  ; 
And  many  a  shadowy  ancestor, 
Guarding  his  sculptured  arms  afar, 
That  day  in  memory  stood. 

At  serried  gallop  on  they  press, 
Swerveless  as  pencilled  lines  of  light ; . 
And  where  a  steed  turns  back  in  fright, 
That  steed  is  riderless. 

They  charge  in  high,  immortal  ire  ; 
The  war-cloud  swallowed  them,  the  young, 
The  brave,  —  a  handful  widely  flung, 
But  of  heroic  fire. 

They  fell,  unconquered,  nor  in  vain,  — 
No,  by  the  sacrificial  cost 
Of  Faith  and  Courage,  never  lost, 
Theirs  doth  the  day  remain. 

Eeft  heart  of  love,  contain  thy  wound ! 
Flash,  eyes,  though  lips  press  close  and  pale ! 
Still,  mourners  !  let  us  hear  no  wail 
Above  the  trumpet's  sound. 

Nor  wait  the  sire  to  weep  the  son 
That  bore  his  fortune  and  his  pride ; 
Nor  shall  the  mother's  wish  divide 
From  these,  her  cherished  one. 

But  tearful  England  holds  her  breath. 

Listening,  uncomforted,  their  fame 

Who,  in  the  greatness  of  her  name, 

Kode  glorious  unto  death. 

Mrs.  Howe. 

I  have  always  considered  this  much  better  than  Tennyson's  •'  Balaklavn." 


280  CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


THE   CHARGE   OF  THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE 
AT   BALAKLAVA. 


! 


Half  a  league,  half  a  league, 

Half  a  league  onward,  j 

All  in  the  valley  of  Death  l 

Rode  the  six  hundred.  ' 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  | 

"  Charge  for  the  guns  ! "  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  " 
"Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply. 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them. 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them. 

Volleyed  and  thundered; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.  281 

Flashed  all  theii*  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  ui  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke. 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 

Cannon  to  left  of  them, 

Cannon  behind  them,  * 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell. 
While  horse  and  hero  fell. 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell,  — - 
All  that  was  left  of  them. 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

Wlien  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Lis;ht  Brio^ade, 

Noble  six  hundred  ! 

Tennyson. 


282  THE    WATCH    ON   THE  RHINE. 


THE  WATCH   ON   THE   EHINE. 

A  EOAR  like  thunder  strikes  the  ear 

Like  clang  of  arms  or  breakers  near. 

Eush  forward  for  the  German  Ehine  ! 

Who  shields  thee,  dear  beloved  Ehine  ? 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear, 
Thy  Ehineland  watch  stands  tirndy  here. 

A  hundred  thousand  hearts  beat  high, 
The  flash  darts  forth  from  every  eye ; 
For  Teutons  brave,  inured  by  toil. 
Protect  their  country's  holy  soil. 
Dear  Fatherland,  &c. 

When  heavenward  ascends  the  eye, 
Our  heroes'  ghosts  look  down  from  high  ; 
We  swear  to  guard  our  dear  bequest, 
And  shield  it  with  the  German  breast. 
Dear  Fatherland,  &c. 

As  long  as  German  blood  still  glows, 
The  German  sword  strikes  mighty  blows, 
And  German  marksmen  take  their  stand. 
No  foe  shall  tread  our  native  land. 
Dear  Fatherland,  &c. 

We  take  the  pledge.     The  stream  runs  high. 

Our  banners  proud  are  wafting  high. 

On  for  the  Ehine,  the  German  Ehine ! 

We  all  die  for  our  native  Ehine. 

Hence,  Fatherland,  be  of  good  cheer," 
Thy  Ehineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

Max  Schueckenburger. 


HAIL,    COLUMBIA!  283 


HAIL,   COLUMBIA! 

Hail,  Columbia  !  happy  land  ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes  !  heaveu-born  band, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause. 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause. 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  paice  your  valor  won. 
Let  independence  be  our  boast, 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize. 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 

Rallying  round  our  Liberty  ; 

As  a  band  of  brothers  joined. 

Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  Patriots  !  rise  once  more  ; 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shora 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand. 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just. 
In  heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust. 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail. 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 
Firm,  united,  &c. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame ! 

Let  Washington's  great  name 

Eing  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 

Ring  through  the  world  with  loud  applause ; 


284  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear, 
Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 
With  equal  skill  and  godlike  power, 
He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war,  or  guides  with  ease 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 
Firm,  united,  &c. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 

Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands,  — 

The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat. 

The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat ; 

But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true. 

His  hopes  are  fixed  on  heaven  and  you. 

When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 

When  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day. 

His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 

Eesolved  on  death  or  liberty. 

Firm,  united,  &c. 

Judge  Joseph  Hopiuxson. 


ANTONY   AND   CLEOPATRA. 

"I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying." 

Shakspeare. 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  arms,  O  queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear ; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart-secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  285 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actiuni's  fatal  shore, 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me. 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Eoman,  — 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Csesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'T  was  his  own  that  struck  the  blow. 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray,  — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Eome, 
Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

"Weeps  within  her  widowed  home. 
Seek  her ;  say  the  gods  bear  witness  — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings  — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  khigs. 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian  ! 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile  ! 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  the  Cajsar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine ; 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 


286  LEXINGTON. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ; 

Hark  !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry  ; 
They  are  coming  —  quick,  my  falchion  ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell ; 
Isis  and  Osiris,  guard  thee ! 

Cleopatra,  Rome  - —  farewell ! 

William  IT.  Lytle. 

The  author  of  this  poem  was  a.  general  in  the  Union  army  from  Ohio,  and  was 
killed  at  Cuickamauga. 


LEXINGTON. 

Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  cree])ing, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping. 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale. 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh. 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 
Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again  ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing. 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein. 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high ; 


THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER.  287 

Many  a  belted  l)reast 
Low  on  tlie  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dai'k  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 


Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying ! 
Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest,  — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  Hying 
Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free. 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won  ! 

Holmes. 


THE   STAE-SPANGLED   BANNER. 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming, — 
Wliose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  streaming? 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there : 
Oh.  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  tlie  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

AVhat  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep. 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 


288  JOHN  BROWN   OF  OSAWATOMIE. 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  mornmg's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream  : 

'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner  ;  oh,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

And  where  are  the  foes  who  so  vaiintingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave  ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation. 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just ; 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust: " 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Francis  Scott  Key. 


JOHN    BEOWN   OF    OSAWATOMIE. 

John  Browx  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer, 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  —  all  stalwart  men  of  might. 
There  he  spoke  aloud  for  Freedom,  and  the  Border  strife  grew 
warmer, 
Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelKng,  in  his  absence,  in  the  night ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Came  homeward  in  the  morning,  to  find  his  house  burned  down. 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE.  289 

Then  lie  grasped  his  trusty  rifle,  and  boldly  fought  for  freedom ; 

Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading  band ; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might  Heaven  help  and 
speed  'em !  — 
They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the  curse  that 
blights  the  land; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us ! "  and  he  shoved  his  ramrod 
down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day  and  even, 

Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril,  and  their  very  lives    seemed 

charmed ; 

■      Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  light  of  heaven,  — 

Tn    cold  blood    the  fellows    slew    him,    as   he  journeyed  all 

unarmed. 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Shed   not  a   tear,  but  shut  his    teeth,  and  frowned  a  terrible 
frown  ! 

Then    they  seized   another  brave  boy,  —  not   amid  the  heat  of 
battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare,  —  and  they  loaded  him 
with  chains. 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad  their 
cattle, 
Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew  out  his 
brains ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
liaised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's  vengeance 
down. 

19 


290  JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of  the  Almighty, 
He  would  huut  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed  and  torn 
him  so ;  — 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals  ;  he  would  crush  it  day  and 
night;  he 
Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow  for  blow, 
That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in  town  ! 

Took  the  guarded  armory  building,  and  the  mnskets,  and  the 
cannon  ; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one  by  one ; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran  on. 
And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  deed  was  done. 
Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took  the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of  powder,  made  he ; 

It  wa.s  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  emperor's  coup-d'dtat ; 
"  Cut  the  wires  !  stop  the  rail-cars  !  hold  the  streets  and  bridges  ! " 
said  he. 
Then  declared  the  new  Eepublic,  with  himself  for  guiding 
star,  — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown  ; 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the  town. 

Tallyho  !  the  old  A'irginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying ! 

In  tbey  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lustily  away; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too  late  for 
slaying, 

Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fixed  their  bullets  in  bis  clay ; 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE.  291 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  I'.rown, 
Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them  laid  him 
down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels ;  how  they  hastened  on 
the  trial ; 
How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half  dying,  on  the  Charlestowni 
court-house  floor ; 
How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  denial  ; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them,  —  these  are  known 
the  country  o'er, 

"  Hang  Old  Brown," 
Osawatomie  Brown," 
Said  the  judge,  "and  all  such  rebels!"  with  his  most  judicial 
frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it !  for  I  tell  you  that  the  flagon. 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  oflspring,  was  first  poured 
by  Southern  hands  ; 
And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins,  lilce  the  red  gore  of 
the  dragon, 
May  spring  up  a  vengeful  fury,  hissing  through  your  slave- 
worn  lands ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  've  nailed  his  coffin 

down ! 

E.  C.  Steuman. 

This  poem  recalls  tlie  night  which  John  Brown  spent  at  my  house  a  few  months 
before  the  fatal  enterprise  at  Harper's  Ferry.  He  passed  several  hours  recounting, 
very  modestly,  under  cross-examination,  liis  battles  of  Osawatomie  and  Black 
Jack  ;  and  he  left  us  with  the  same  impression  of  heroism  which  his  later  history 
left  with  the  world.  On  the  day  of  his  ileath  Mrs.  Follkn  and  Miss  Susan 
(Jabot  took  refuge  with  us  to  count  his  last  hours,  watching  the  hands  of  the 
(lock  as  the  moment  of  his  execution  approached,  with  strained  eyes  and  bated 
breath.  None  of  us  who  were  there  will  ever  forget  either  him,  or  them  as  they 
appeai'ed  on   that  day. 


292  ON  THE  SHORES   OF  TENNESSEE. 


ON   THE   SHORES   OF  TENNESSEE. 

"  Move  my  arm-chair,  faitliful  Pompey, 

In  the  sunshine  bright  and  strong, 
For  this  world  is  fading,  Pompey, 

Massa  won't  be  with  you  long ; 
And  I  fain  would  hear  the  south- wind 

Bring  the  sound  once  more  to  me, 
Of  the  wavelets  softly  breaking 

On  the  shores  of  Tennessee. 

"  Mournful  though  the  ripples  murmur, 

As  they  still  the  story  tell. 
How  no  vessels  float  the  banner 

That  I  've  loved  so  long  and  well, 
I  shall  listen  to  their  music, 

Dreaming  that  again  I  see 
Stars  and  stripes  on  sloop  and  shallop, 

SaiUng  up  the  Tennessee." 

Still  the  south-wind  fondly  lingers 

'Mid  the  veteran's  silver  hair  ; 
Still  the  bondman,  close  beside  hiui, 

Stands  behind  the  old  arm-chair. 
With  his  dark-hued  hand  uplifted, 

Shading  eyes,  he  bends  to  see 
Where  the  woodland,  boldly  jutting, 

Turns  aside  the  Tennessee. 

Thus  he  watches  cloud-born  shadows 
Glide  from  tree  to  mountain  crest, 

Softly  creeping,  aye  and  ever. 
To  the  river's  yielding  breast. 


I 


TOGETHER.  293 

Ha,  above  the  foliage  yonder 

Something  liutters  wild  and  free ! 
"  Massa,  niassa  !  hallelujah  ! 

The  flag 's  come  back  to  Tennessee ! " 

".Pompey,  hold  me  on  your  shoulder, 

Help  me  stand  on  foot  once  more, 
That  I  may  salute  the  colors 

As  they  pass  before  my  door. 
Here 's  the  paper  signed  that  frees  you, 

Give  a  freeman's  shout  with  me ! 
God  and  Union  be  our  watchword 

Evermore  in  Tennessee  '  " 

Then  the  trembling  voice  grew  fainter, 

And  the  limbs  refused  to  stand ; 
One  prayer  to  Jesus,  and  the  soldier 

Glided  to  that  better  land. 
When  the  flag  went  down  the  river 

Man  and  master  both  were  free, 
While  the  ringdove's  note  was  mingled 

With  the  rippUng  Tennessee. 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 
My  favorite  among  war-songs,  as  sung  by  M . 


TOGETHER 

0  FAIR-HAIRED  Northern  hero, 
With  thy  guard  of  dusky  hue. 

Up  from  the  field  of  battle 
Rise  to  the  last  review ! 

Sweep  downward,  holy  angels. 
In  legions  dazzling  bright. 


294  THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

And  bear  these  souls  together 
Before  Christ's  throne  oi  hght. 

The  Master,  who  remembers 

The  cross,  the  thorns,  the  spear, 

Smiles  on  the  risen  freedmen. 
As  their  ransomed  souls  appear. 

And  thou,  young  generous  spirit, 

What  will  thy  welcome  be  ? 
"  Thou  hast  aided  the  down-trodden. 

Thou  hast  done  it  unto  me ! " 

Mrs.  Watekstox. 
Refers  to  Colonel  Robert  G.  Shaw. 


THE   PICKET-GUAED. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  they  say. 

Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  tliicket. 
'Tis  nothing  :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  oiScer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men. 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night. 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 


THE  PlCKET-aUARl).  290 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  trom  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  lone  trundle-bed. 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim. 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken  ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes. 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-svv-elling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark  !  was  it  the  night-wdnd  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

AYas  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing  ? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  :  "  Ah  !  Mary,  good-by  ! " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  — 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

Ethel  Lynn  Beers. 


'296  THE  FLAG. 


THE   FLAG. 

There  's  a  flag  hangs  over  my  threshold,  whose  folds  are  more 

dear  to  me 
Than  the  blood  that  thrills  in  my  bosom  its  earnest  of  liberty  ; 
And  dear  are  the  stars  it  harbors  in  its  sunny  field  of  blue 
As  the  hope  of  a  further  heaven  that  lights  all  our  dim  lives 

through. 

l)Ut  now  should  my  guests  be  merry,  the  house  is  in  holiday 

guise. 
Looking  out,  through  its  burnished  windows  like  a  score   of 

welcoming  eyes. 
Come  hither,  my  brothers,  who  wander  in  saintliness  and  in  sin  ! 
Come  hither,  ye  pilgrims  of  Nature  !  my  heart  doth  invite  you  in. 

My  wine  is  not  of  the  choicest,  yet  bears  it  an  honest  brand ; 
And  the  bread  that  I  bid  you  lighten  I  break  with  no  sparing 

hand ; 
But  pause,  —  ere  you  pass  to  taste  it,  one  act  must  accomplished 

be: 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  before  ye  sit  down  with  me. 

The  flag  of  our  stately  battles,  not  struggles  of  wrath  and  greed : 
Its  stripes  were  a  holy  lesson,  its  spangles  a  deathless  creed ; 
'T  was  red  with  the  blood  of  freemen,  and  white  with  the  fear 

of  the  foe, 
And   the   stars   that  fight  in   their  courses  'gainst  tyrants  its 

symbols  know. 

Come  hither,  thou  son  of  my  mother !  we  were  reared  in  the 

self-same  arms ; 
Thou  hast  many  a  pleasant  gesture,  thy  mind  hath  its  gifts  and 

charms. 


THE   FLAG.  297 

But  my  heart  is  as  stern  to  question  as  mine  eyes  are  of  sorrows 

full : 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  or  pass  on  where  others  rule. 

Thou  lord  of  a  thousand  acres,  with  heaps  of  uncounted  gold, 
The  steeds  of  thy  stall  are  haughty,  thy  lackeys  cunning  and  bold  ; 
I  envy  no  jot  of  thy  splendor,  I  rail  at  thy  follies-  none : 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  or  leave  my  poor  house  alone. 

Fair  lady  with  silken  trappings,  high  waving  thy  stainless  plume, 
We  welcome  thee  to  our  numbers,  a  flower  of  costliest  bloom : 
Let  a  hundred  maids  live  widowed  to  furnish  thy  bridal  bed ; 
But  pause  where  the  flag  doth  question,  and  bend  thy  trium- 
phant head. 

Take  down  now  your  flaunting  banner,  for  a  scout  comes  breath- 
less and  pale. 

With  the  terror  of  death  upon  him ;  of  failure  is  all  his  tale : 

"  They  have  fled  while  the  flag  waved  o'er  them !  they  have 
turned  to  the  foe  their  back  ! 

They  are  scattered,  pursued,  and  slaughtered !  the  fields  are  all 
rout  and  wrack  ! " 

Pass  hence,  then,  the  friends  I  gathered,  a  goodly  company  1 
All  ye  that  have  manhood  in  you,  go,  perish  for  Liberty  ! 
But  I  and  the  babes  God  gave  me  will  wait  with  uplifted  hearts, 
With  the  firm  smile  ready  to  kindle,  and  the  will  to  perform  our 
parts. 

When  the  last  true  heart  lies  bloodless,  when  the  fierce  and  the 

false  have  won, 
1  '11  press  in  turn  to  my  bosom  each  daughter  and  either  son ; 
Bid  them  loose  the  flag  from  its  bearings,  and  ue  '11  lay  us  down 

to  rest 
AVith  the  glory  of  home  about  us,  and  its  freedom  locked  in  our 

breast. 

Mils.  Howe. 


298  BATTLE-IIYMN  OF   THE  REPUBLIC. 


BATTLE-HYMN   OF   THE   REPUBLIC. 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  tlie  comuig  of  the  Lord ; 

He  is  tramphng  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are 

stored. 
He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift  sword ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps ; 
They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps. 
I  have  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps  : 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 

"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall 

deal : 
Let  the  hero,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment  seat: 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him,  —  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 

As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

Mrs.  Howe. 

The  great  hvmn  of  the  war. 


GLORY,    GLORY,   HALLELUJAH  1  299 


GLOKY,    GLOEY,   HALtELUJAH ! 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouklering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-niouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory  glory,  hallelujali ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah  ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

The  stars  of  heaven  are  looking  kindly  down. 
The  stars  of  heaven  are  looking  kindly  down. 
The  stars  of  heaven  are  looking  kindly  down, 
On  the  grave  of  old  John  Brown. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

He 's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 

He 's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 

He 's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back, 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back, 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back, 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

His  pet  lamb  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
His  pet  lamb  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
His  pet  lamb  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
And  they  '11  go  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 


300  THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple-tree, 
They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple-tree, 
They  will  hang  Jeff'  Davis  to  a  sour  apple-tree, 
As  they  go  inarching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &e. 

Let's  give  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union, 
Let 's  give  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union, 
Let 's  give  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 
Grlory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  hurrah ! 

AXONVMOUS. 

This  is  the  John  Brown  song  used  by  the  soldiers  and  negroes.  Just  after 
the  war  I  was  on  the  St.  John's  River,  on  the  old  steamer  "Darlington,"  com- 
manded by  the  worst  of  rebels,  Captain  Brock.  The  night  was  dark,  and  the  fires 
of  the  boat  flashed  brightly  on  the  trees  as  we  passed.  The  negro  crew  gave  us 
in  chorus  this  song,  while  the  rebel  captain  was  grinding  his  teeth  on  the  upper 
deck.  Such  a  song  in  that  place  five  years  earlier,  before  the  war,  could  only 
have  been  had  at  the  cost  of  several  lives  ;  and  the  contrast,  together  with  the 
dusky  faces,  the  illumined  shores,  and  the  sparkling  water,  formed  a  picture  never 
to  be  effaced  from  memory. 


THE   AMEEICAN   FLAG. 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air. 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night. 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies. 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 


THE   AMERICAN  FLAG.  301 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down, 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear' St  aloft  thy  regal  form,  • 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud. 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven. 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder  drum  of  heaven, — 
Child  of  the  sun,  to  thee  't  is  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free. 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  vyard  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on ; 
Ere  yet  the  life  blood,  warm  and  wet. 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet. 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn. 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall. 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow. 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 


302  WE   ARE   COMING,   FATHER   A  BRA 'AM. 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  Lrave ; 
Wlien  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home. 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome. 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  Imt  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneatli  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 

Drake. 


WE   AEE   COMING,   FATHEE   ABRA'AM. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more. 
From  Mississippi's  winding   stream  and  from  New   England's 

shore ; 
We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives  and  childi^en 

dear, 
AVith  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent  tear : 
W^e  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before. 


WE  ARE   COMING,   FATHER   A  BR  A' AM.  303 

We  are  coming,  Father  Ahra'am,  tliree  liuiidred  thousand  more  ! 

We  are  coming,  we  are  coming,  our  Union  to  restore ; 

We  are  coming,  Fatlicr  Ahra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more ; 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  the  Northern  sky, 
Long  moving  Imes  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may  descry  ; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag,  in  glory  and  in  pride ; 
And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave   music 

pour. 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more  ! 
We  are  coming,  &c. 

If  you  look  up  our  valleys,  where  the  growing  harvests  shine. 
You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into  line ; 
And  children  at  their  mother's  knees  are  pulling  at  the  weeds, 
And  learning  how  to   reap   and   sow   against   their    country's 

needs, 
And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage  door. 
We  are  coming.  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more ! 
We  are  coming,  &c. 

You  have  called  us,  and  we  're  coming,  by  Richmond's  bloody  tide, 
To  lay  us  down  for  freedom's  sake,  our  brothers'  bones  beside ; 
Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  group  to  wrench  the  murderous 

blade, 
And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 
Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone  before ; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more  ! 

We  are  coming,  &c. 

GnjBoxs,  New  York  Evening  Post. 


304  AT  PORT  Pi  OVAL. 


AT   PORT   ROYAL. 

The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Onr  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song,  — 
The  gold  that  kindly  nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
"With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  west  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate. 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 

The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  30 J 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 

Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  ; 
Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 

That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph  note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  ; 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust. 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just. 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 
Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 

20 


306  THE   FALL    OF  RICHMOND. 

And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 
We  march  to  fate  abreast, 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  cliant  shall  be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom. 

Whittier. 

This  always  recalls  oar  winter  at  Port  Royal,  1862,  and  the  songs  of  the  nogioes 
which  we  lieard  as  they  passed  our  house,  just  outside  of  the  Union  lines  and 
witlun  four  miles  of  the  enemy. 


THE   FALL   OF   EICHMOND. 

EoLL  not  a  drum,  sound  not  a  clarion  note 
Of  haughty  triumph  to  the  listening  sky ; 

Hushed  be  the  shout  of  joy  in  every  throat. 
And  veiled  the  flash  of  pride  in  every  eye. 

Not  with  Te  Deums  loud,  and  high  hosannas, 
Hail  we  the  awful  victory  we  have  won ; 

But  with  our  arms  reversed,  and  lowered  banners. 
Stand  we,  —  our  work  is  done. 

Thy  work  is  done,  —  God,  terrible  and  just. 

Who  lay'st  upon  our  hearts  and  hands  this  task. 

Now  kneeling  with  our  foreheads  in  the  dust. 
We  venture  —  peace  to  ask. 

Bleeding  and  writhing  underneath  our  sword, 
Prostrate  our  brothers  lie,  —  my  fallen  foe. 

Struck  down  through  us  by  thee,  omnipotent  Lord, 
By  thy  dread  hand  laid  low. 


THE   FALL    OF  RICHMOND.  307 

For  our  own  guilt  have  we  l)een  doomed  to  smite 
These  our  own  kindred,  thy  great  law  defying,  — 

These  our  own  flesh  and  blood  who  now  unite 
For  one  thing  with  us,  —  bravely  dying ; 

Dying  how  bravely,  but  how  bitterly. 

Not  for  the  better  side,  but  for  the  worse  ; 

Blindly  and  wearily  striving  against  thee. 

For  the  bad  cause  where  thou  hast  set  thy  curse. 

At  whose  defeat  we  may  not  raise  our  voice. 
Save  in  the  deep  thanksgiving  of  our  prayers. 

Lord,  we  have  fought  the  fight,  but  to  rejoice 
Is  ours  no  more  than  theirs. 

Call  back  thy  dreadful  ministers  of  wrath 
Who  have  led  on  our  hosts  to  this  great  day ; 

Let  our  feet  halt  in  the  avenger's  path. 
And  bid  our  weapons  stay. 

And  our  land,  freedom's  inheritance, 

Turn  thou  once  more  the  blessing  of  thy  face  ; 

Where  nations  serving  thee  towards  light  advance, 
Give  us  again  our  place. 

Not  our  bewildering  past  prosperity. 

Not  all  thy  former  ill-acknowledged  grace. 

But  this  one  boon,  —  God  grant  us  still  to  be 
The  home  of  hope  for  the  whole  human  race. 

Mrs.  Kemble. 


308  SONNETS   ON   THE  AMERICAN   WAR. 


SONNETS   ON  THE  AMERICAN   WAE. 


She  has  gone  down ;  they  shout  it  from  ai'ar,  — 

Kings,  nobles,  priests,  all  men  of  every  race 

Whose  lagging  clogs  time's  swift,  relentless  pace. 

She  has  gone  down,  —  our  evil-boding  star. 

Rebellion  smitten  with  rebellion's  sword. 

Anarchy  done  to  death  by  slavery 

Of  ancient  right,  insolvent  enemy ; 

Beneath  a  hideous  cloud  of  civil  war. 

Strife,  such  as  heathen  slaughterers  had  abhorred. 

The  lawless  land  where  no  man  was  called  lord, 

Spurning  all  wholesome  curb,  and  dreaming  free. 

Her  rabble  rules  licentious  tyranny  ; 

In  the  fierce  splendor  of  her  arrogant  morn 

She  has  gone  down,  —  the  world's  eternal  scorn. 

II. 

She  has  gone  down,  —  woe  for  the  world  and  all 
The  weary  workers,  gazing  from  afar 
At  the  clear  rising  of  that  hopeful  star  ; 
Star  of  redemption  to  each  weeping  thrall 
Of  power  decrepit,  and  of  rule  outworn  ; 
Beautiful  shining  of  that  blessed  morn 
Which  was  to  bring  leave  for  the  poor  to  live, 
To  work  and  rest,  to  labor  and  to  thrive. 
And  righteous  room  for  all  who  nobly  strive. 
She  has  gone  down,  —  woe  for  the  struggling  world. 
Back  on  its  path  of  progress  sternly  hurled  1 
Land  of  sufficient  harvests  for  all  dearth. 


I 


JOHN  A.  ANDREW.  309 

Home  of  far-seeing  hope,  time's  latest  bii'th, 
Woe  for  the  promised  land  of  the  whole  earth ! 

III. 

Triumph  not,  fools,  and  weep  not,  ye  faint-hearted ! 

Have  ye  believed  that  the  supreme  decree 

Of  Heaven  had  given  this  people  o'er  to  perish  ? 

Have  ye  believed  that  God  had  ceased  to  cherish 

This  great,  new  world  of  Christian  liberty  ? 

Nay,  by  the  precious  blood  shed  to  redeem 

The  nation  from  its  selfishness  and  sin ; 

By  each  brave  heart  that  bends  in  lioly  strife, 

Leavmg  its  kindred  hearts  to  break  through  life ; 

By  all  the  bitter  tears,  whose  source  must  stream 

Forever  every  desolate  home  within,  — 

We  w411  return  to  our  apj)ointed  place, 

Fhst  in  the  vanguard  of  the  human  race. 

Mes.  Kemble. 


JOHN  A.   ANDEEW. 

1867. 

O  LARGE  of  heart,  and  grand,  and  calm, 
Who  held  the  helm  of  State  so  long. 

Our  plaining  mingles  with  our  praise. 
Our  sorrow  sanctifies  our  song. 

Clear  eyes,  kind  lips  so  silent  now. 
Ears  deaf  to  all  our  worldly  din, 

Great  soul,  which  has  not  left  its  peer, 
We  would  the  grave-sods  had  shut  in 


310  THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 

Some  lesser  man,  and  we,  to-day, 
Had  thy  strong  will  to  urge  us  on. 

Thy  brain  to  plan,  thy  hands  to  help. 
Thy  cheerful  voice  to  say  "  Well  done  1 " 

Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 


THE   NATION'S   DEAD. 

Four  hundred  thousand  men, 

The  brave,  the  good,  the  true, 
In  tangled  wood,  in  mountain  glen, 
On  battle  plain,  in  prison  pen, 

Lie  dead  for  me  and  you. 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Have  made  our  ransomed  soil  their  grave, 
For  me  and  you. 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

In  many  a  fevered  swamp, 

By  many  a  black  bayou. 
In  many  a  cold  and  frozen  camp. 
The  weary  sentinel  ceased  his  tramp, 

And  died  for  me  and  you. 
From  western  plain  to  ocean  tide 
Are  stretched  the  graves  of  those  who  died 
For  me  and  you. 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 

Their  ready  swords  they  drew, 

And  poured  their  life-blood  like  the  rain, 

A  home,  a  heritage,  to  gain. 
To  gain  for  me  and  you. 


THE   NATION'S   DEAD.  311 

Our  brothers  mustered  by  our  side, 
They  inarched,  and  fought,  and  bravely  died 
For  me  and  you, 
Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

Up  many  a  fortress  wall 

They  charged,  those  boys  in  blue  ; 
'Mid  surging  smoke  and  volleyed  ball, 
The  bravest  were  the  first  to  fall, 

To  fall  for  me  and  you. 
Those  noble  men,  the  nation's  pride, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men,  have  died 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

In  treason's  prison-hold 

Their  martyr  spirits  grew 
To  stature  like  the  saints  of  old, 
While,  amid  agonies  untold. 

They  starved  for  me  and  you. 
The  good,  the  patient,  and  the  tried. 
Four  hundred  thousand  men,  have  died 
For  me  and  you. 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

A  debt  we  ne'er  can  pay 

To  them  is  justly  due ; 
And  to  the  nation's  latest  day 
Our  children's  children  still  shall  say, 

"  They  died  for  me  and  you." 
Four  hundred  tliousand  of  the  brave 
Made  this,  our  ransomed  soil,  their  grave. 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

Anonymous,  Round  Table. 


312  THE  HOUR    OF  PRAYER. 


THE   HOUK   OF   PRAYER 

Child,  amidst  the  flowers  at  play. 
While  tlie  red  light  fades  away ; 
Mother,  with  thine  earnest  eye 
Ever  following  silently ; 
Father,  by  the  breeze  of  eve 
Call'd  thy  harvest-work  to  leave  ; 
Pray  !  —  ere  yet  the  dark  hours  be. 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee ! 

Traveller,  in  the  stranger's  land 
Far  from  thine  own  household  band ; 
Mourner,  haunted  by  the  tone 
Of  a  voice  from  this  world  gone ; 
Captive,  in  whose  narrow  cell 
Sunshine  hath  not  leave  to  dwell ; 
Sailor,  on  the  darkening  sea,  — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  ! 

Warrior,  that  from  battle  won 
Breathest  now  at  set  of  sun ; 
Woman,  o'er  the  lowly  slain 
Weeping  on  his  burial  plain ; 
Ye  that  triumph,  ye  that  sigh, 
Kindred  by  one  holy  tie, 
Heaven's  first  star  alike  ye  see,  — 
Lift  the  heart  and  bend  the  knee  ! 


1 


Mrs.  Hemans. 


THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  FREEDOM.  313 

THE  BATTLE-CEY   OF   FEEEDOM. 

KALLYING-SONG. 

Yes,  we  '11  rally  round  the  tiag,  boys,  rally  once  again, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
And  we  '11  rally  from  the  hillside,  we  '11  gather  from  the  plain, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

The  Union  forever,  hurrali,  boys,  hurrah ! 
Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with  the  star ; 
While  we  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  agaui, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  are  springing  to  the  call  of  our  brothers  gone  before, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  we  '11  fill  the  vacant  ranks  with  a  million  freemen  more. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

We  will  welcome  to  our  numbers  the  loyal,  true,  and  brave, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
And  although  they  may  be  poor,  not  a  man  shall  be  a  slave. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

So  we  're  springing  to  the  call,  from  the  East  and  from  the  West, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
And  we  '11  hurl  the  rebel  crew  from  the  land  we  love  the  best, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

BATTLE-SONG. 

We  are  marching  to  the  field,  boys,  we  're  going  to  the  fight, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 


314  MARCHING    THROUGH  GEORGIA. 

And  wc  bear  the  glorious  stars  for  the  Union  and  the  right, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 

The  Union  forever,  hurrah,  boys,  hurrah ! 
Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with  the  star, 
For  we  're  marching  to  the  field,  boys,  going  to  the  tight, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  will  meet  the  rebel  host,  boys,  with  fearless  heart  and  true, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  we  11  show  what  Uncle  Sam  has  for  loyal  men  to  do. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

If  we  fall  amid  the  fray,  boys,  we  '11  face  them  to  the  last. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  our  comrades  brave  shall  hear  us,  as  they  go  rushing  past, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

Yes,  for  Liberty  and  Union  we  're  springing  to  the  fight. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
And  the  victory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  're  rising  in  our  might, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 


Root. 


MAECHING  THEOUGH   GEOEGIA. 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we  '11  sing  another  song. 
Sing  it  with  a  spirit  that  will  start  the  world  along,  — 
Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it,  fifty  thousand  strong, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  we  bring  the  Jubilee ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  the  flag  that  makes  you  free  ! 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea. 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  315 

How  the  darkeys  shouted  when  they  heard  the  joyful  sound, 
How  the  turkeys  gobbled  which  our  commissary  found, 
How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from  the  ground, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

Yes,  and  there  were  Union  men  who  wept  with  joyful  tears, 
When  they  saw  the  honored  Hag  they  had  not  seen  for  years ; 
Hardly  could  they  be  restrained  from  breaking  forth  in  cheers. 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

"  Sherman's  dashing  Yankee  boys  will  never  reach  the  coast," 
So  the  saucy  rebels  said ;  and  't  was  a  handsome  boast, 
Had  they  not  forgot,  alas !  to  reckon  with  the  host, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare  for  Freedom  and  her  train. 
Sixty  miles  in  latitude,  three  hundred  to  the  main  ; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was  in  vain, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

o  o  o 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

Work. 

When  General  Sherman,  Admirals  Porter,  Alhen,  and  others  visited  Naushon 
just  after  tlie  war,  this,  and  similar  songs  were  sung  by  our  young  people  with 
great  glee  on  their  part,  and  with  much  apparent  enjoyment  by  our  visitors. 


BAEBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand, 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


316  BARBARA    FRIETCHIE. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde ; 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, — 

Over  the  mountains,  winding  down. 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  l;)ars. 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind ;  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then. 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town. 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast ; 
"  Fire  ! "  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  317 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill. 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  —  march  on  ! "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

And  througli  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er. 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her,  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave. 
Flag  of  freedom  and  union,  wave ! 


318  TRAMP,    TRAMP,    TRAMP. 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town. 

Whittier. 


TRAMP,  TRAMP,   TRAMP. 

In  the  prison  cell  I  sit,  thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you. 

And  our  bright  and  happy  home  so  far  away ; 
And  the  tears  they  fill  my  eyes,  spite  of  all  that  I  can  do. 
Though  I  try  to  cheer  my  comrades  and  be  gay. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching. 
Cheer  up,  comrades,  they  will  come ; 
And  beneath  the  starry  flag 
We  shall  breathe  the  air  again 
Of  the  free  land  in  our  own  beloved  home. 

In  the  battle  front  we  stood,  when  their  fiercest  charge  they 
made. 
And  they  swept  us  off,  a  hundred  men  or  more ; 
But  before  they  reached  our  lines  they  were  beaten  back  dis- 
mayed, 
And  we  heard  the  cry  of  victory  o'er  and  o'er. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  &c. 

I 
So  within  the  prison  cell  we  are  waitmg  for  the  day  | 

That  shall  come  to  open  wide  the  iron  door ; 
And  the  hollow  eye  grows  bright,  and  the  poor  heart  almost  gay, 
As  we  think  of  seeing  home  and  friends  once  more. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  &c. 

Root. 


BOSTON.  319 


BOSTON. 

SICUT   PATRIBUS,   SIT   DEUS   NOBIS. 

The  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 
Looked  eastward  from  the  farms, 
And  twice  each  day  the  flowing  sea 
Took  Boston  in  its  arms  ; 

The  men  of  yore  were  stout  and  poor, 
And  sailed  for  bread  to  every  shore. 

And  where  they  went,  on  trade  intent. 

They  did  what  freemen  can  ; 
Their  dauntless  ways  did  all  men  praise, 
The  merchant  was  a  man. 

The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade. 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 

The  waves  that  rocked  them  on  the  deep 

To  them  their  secret  told  ; 
Said  the  winds  that  sung  the  lads  to  sleep, 
"  Like  us  be  free  and  bold  ! " 

The  honest  waves  refuse  to  slaves 
The  empire  of  the  ocean  caves. 

Old  Europe  groans  with  palaces. 

Has  lords  enough  and  more ; 
We  plant  and  build  by  foaming  seas 
A  city  of  the  poor ;  — 

For  day  by  day  could  Boston  Bay 
Their  honest  labor  overpay. 

We  grant  no  dukedoms  to  the  few. 
We  hold  like  rights  and  shall;  — 


320  BOSTON. 

Equal  on  Sunday  in  the  pew, 
On  Monday  in  the  mall. 

For  wliat  avail  the  plough  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail  ? 

The  noble  craftsmen  we  promote, 

Disown  the  knave  and  fool ; 
Each  honest  man  shall  have  his  vote, 
Each  child  shall  have  his  school. 
A  union  then  of  honest  men, 
Or  union  nevermore  again. 

The  wild  rose  and  the  barbary  thorn 
Hung  out  their  summer  pride 

Where  now  on  heated  pavements  worn 
The  feet  of  millions  stride. 


0  happy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Whose  roads  lead  everywhere  to  all ; 

Than  thine  no  deeper  moat  can  be, 
No  stouter  fence,  no  steeper  wall ! 

Bad  news  from  George  on  the  English  throne 

"  You  are  thriving  well,"  said  he  ; 
"  Now  by  these  presents  be  it  known. 
You  shall  pay  us  a  tax  on  tea ; 

'T  is  very  small,  —  no  load  at  all,  — 
Honor  enough  that  we  send  the  call." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Boston,  "  good  my  lord, 

We  pay  your  governors  here 
Abundant  for  their  bed  and  board, 

Six  thousand  pounds  a  year. 


FREMONT  AND   VICTORY.  321 

(Your  Highness  knows  our  homely  word,) 
Millions  for  self-government, 
But  for  tribute  never  a  cent." 

The  cargo  came  !  and  who  could  blame 

If  Indians  seized  the  tea, 
And,  chest  by  chest,  let  down  the  same  ' 
Into  the  laughing  sea  ? 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail  ? 

Emerson. 
Eead  in  Faneuil  Hall,  on  the  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  Destruction  of  the 
Tea,  Dec.  16,  1873. 

FEEMONT   AND   VICTORY. 

PRIZE    SONG. 
Air  :  "  Suoni  la  Tromba." 

Men  of  the  North,  who  remember 
The  deeds  of  your  sires,  ever  glorious, 
Join  in  our  psean  victorious, 

The  p?ean  of  liberty  ! 
Hark  !  on  the  gales  of  November 
Millions  of  voices  are  ringing ; 
Glorious  the  song  they  are  singing, 

Fremont  and  Victory ! 
Hurrah ! 
Join  the  great  chorus  they  're  singing, 

Fremont  and  Victory  ! 

Come  from  your  forest-clad  mountains. 
Come  from  the  fields  of  your  tillage. 
Come  forth  from  city  and  village. 
Join  the  great  host  of  the  free  ! 

21 


322  FREMONT  AND    VICTORY. 

As  from  their  cavernous  fountains 
Eoll  the  deep  floods  to  the  ocean, 
Join  the  great  army  in  motion, 

Marching  to  Victory  ! 
Hurrah  ! 
Echoes  from  ocean  to  ocean, 

Fremont  and  Victory  ! 

Far  in  the  West  rolls  the  thunder. 
The  tumult  of  hattle  is  raging. 
Where  bleeding  Kansas  is  waging 

Warfare  with  slavery! 
Struggling  with  foes  who  surround  her, 
Lo  !  she  implores  you  to  stay  her ! 
Will  you  to  slavery  betray  her  ? 

Never  —  she  shall  be  free  ! 
Hurrah  ! 
Swear  that  you  '11  never  betray  her  : 

Kansas  shall  yet  be  free ! 

March  !  we  have  sworn  to  support  her ; 
The  prayers  of  the  righteous  shall  speed  us, 
A  chief  never  conquered  shall  lead  us, 

Fremont  shall  lead  the  free ! 
Then  from  those  fields  red  with  slaughter, 
Slavery's  hordes  shall  be  driven, 
Freedom  to  Kansas  be  given, 

Fremont  shall  make  her  free ! 
Hurrah  ! 
To  Kansas  shall  freedom  be  given : 

Fremont  shall  make  her  free ! 

Men  of  the  North,  who  remember 
The  deeds  of  your  sires,  ever  glorious. 


TO  R.  W.  E.  323 

Join  in  our  pa?an  victorious, 

The  psean  of  liberty  ! 
Hark  !  on  the  gales  of  November, 
Millions  of  voices  are  ringing ; 
Glorious  the  song  they  are  singing, 
Fremont  and  Victory  ! 
Hurrah  ! 
Join  the  great  chorus  they  're  singing, 
Fremont  and  Victory  ! 

Charles  S.  Wetmak. 

On  Aug.  2,  1856,  during  the  Fremont  campaign,  I  offered  anonymously  through 
the  editorial  columns  of  the  "New  York  P>ening  Post,"  a  prize  of  |100  lor  the 
best  Republican  song  in  English,  and  $100  for  the  best  one  in  German  ;  the  songs 
to  be  handed  in  to  the  office  of  the  "Post"  on  or  before  Sept.  1,  1856.  The 
advertisement  also  stated  that,  "if  equal  in  other  respects,  preference  will 
be  given  to  songs  adapted  to  the  air  of  Suoni  la  Tromba,  from  II  Puritani." 
In  the  issue  of  Sept.  2,  1856,  the  "  Post  "  announced  that  George  W.  Curtis, 
Parke  Godwin,  and  Frederic  "W.  Rackeman  had  consented  to  act  as  a 
committee  to  examine  the  songs  and  award  the  prizes.  On  September  12,  these 
gentlemen  reported  that  they  had  "  carefully  read  and  examined  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  contributions,  which  were  sent  in  from  nearly  all  parts  of  the 
Union,"  and  had  awarded  one  prize  to  the  above  poem  by  Charles  S.  Weyman, 
of  New  York,  and  the  other  to  the  German  song  entitled  "  Freiheitslied  der 
Deutschen  Republicaner,"  by  E.  Vitalis  Scherb,  of  Boston. 

Another  very  valuable  poem  came  in  too  late  for  the  award,  from  Mr.  Wiiittieu. 
It  has  been  lost ;  but  we  still  hope  to  recover  it. 


TO   E.  W.    E. 

"  Dry  light  makes  the  best  souls."  —  R.  "W.  E. 

"  Dry-lighted  soul,"  the  ray  that  shines  in  thee 

Shot  without  reflex  from  primeval  sun ; 
We  twine  the  laurel  for  the  victories 

Which  thou  on  Thought's  broad,  bloodless  field  hast  won. 


324  TO    THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

Thou  art  the  mountain  where  we  cKmb  to  see 
The  land  our  feet  have  trod  this  many  a  year ; 

Thou  art  the  deep  and  crystal  winter  sky, 

Where  noiseless,  one  by  one,  bright  stars  appear. 

It  may  be,  Bacchus  at  thy  birth  forgot 

That  drop  from  out  the  purple  grape  to  press 

Which  is  his  gift  to  man,  and  so  thy  blood 

Doth  miss  the  heat  which  ofttimes  breeds  excess. 

But  all  more  surely  do  we  turn  to  thee 

When  the  day's  heat  and  blinding  dust  are  o'er, 

And  cool  our  souls  in  thy  refreshing  air, 

And  find  the  peace  which  we  had  lost  before. 

E.  S.  H. 


TO   THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek, 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singinw  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 


TO   THE  HUMBLE-BEE.  325 

Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June ! 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  ear-shot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days, 

With  a  net  of  shining  haze 

Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 

And,  with  softness  touching  all, 

Tmts  the  human  countenance 

With  the  color  of  romance, 

And  infusing  subtle  heats 

Turns  the  sod  to  violets,  —  , 

Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 

Eover  of  the  underwoods, 

The  green  silence  dost  displace 

With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  iMidsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours. 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen  ; 

But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells. 

Maple  sap,  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky. 


326  /    WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 

» 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. 
Wiser  far  than  human  seer. 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet,        * 
,  Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care. 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
J  Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast,  — 

Thou  already  slumberest  deep : 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  out-sleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us. 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


Emerson. 


I   WOULD   NOT   LIVE   ALWAY. 

I  WOULD  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to  stay 
Wliere  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er  the  way ; 
Where,  seeking  for  rest,  I  but  hover  around 
Like  the  patriarch's  bird,  and  no  resting  is  found ; 
Where  Hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay  bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night  of  despair, 
And  joy's  fleeting  angel  ne'er  sheds  a  glad  ray, 
Save  the  gleam  of  the  plumage  that  bears  him  away. 

Who,  who  would  live  alway  away  from  his  God, 
Away  from  yon  heaven,  that  blissful  abode, 


WHY   THUS  LONGING?  327 

Where  the  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  o'er  the  bright  plains, 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns ; 
Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet, 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to  greet. 
While  the  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly  roll, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul  ? 

W.  A.  Muhlenberg. 


WHY   THUS   LONGING? 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighmg. 

For  the  far-off,  unattained,  and  dim. 
While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying. 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  l)ee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill. 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw, 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten. 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thme  own. 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  Avin  thee  world  renown, 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses, 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 


328  COMMEMORATION  ODE. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely. 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 
Thou  wilt  find  by  hearty  striving  only, 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

Dost  thou  revel  m  the  rosy  morning 
When  all  nature  hails  the  lord  of  light. 

And  his  smile,  nor  low  nor  lofty  scorning. 
Gladdens  hall  and  hovel,  vale  and  height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  m  pomp  may  shine ; 

But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest. 

Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world  is  thine. 

Yet  if  through  earth's  wide  domains  thou  rovest. 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou  lovest. 
And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 

Harriet  Wins  low  Sewall. 


COMMEMORATION   ODE. 

HARVAKD   UNIVERSITY,   JULY   21,  1865 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk ; 
But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  m  hand. 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best ;  — 
Ah  me  !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain. 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 


I 

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